


Never Tear Us Apart

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Series: Never Tear Us Apart [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Boyfriends, Discoveries, Domestic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, London, M/M, Malcolm Grimm is a good dad, Oxford, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow Friendship, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Friendship, Post-Canon, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Revelations about the Mage, Road Trip, Romantic Moments, Tennis, The Club, University Setting, Wales, What happens after the Coven looks into the Mage's files, mentions of canonical death of characters, searching for clues about Simon's family, tales of Visitings past, there will be some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2019-10-25 03:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17717462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Simon and Baz have comfortably settled into their relationship and their university studies. Summer is here and with Penny visiting Micah in America they can finally indulge in the relaxing summer holidays together. But then a bewildering letter arrives for Simon and they find themselves following a trail of clues that might lead them to discovering Simon's true parentage. Soft boys in love, road trips, misunderstandings, uncomfortable conversations around the dinner table--Simon and Baz discover more than they expected about each other and about Simon's mysterious past.Written for the Carry On Big Bang 2018/2019art for this by @julic-art on tumblr https://66.media.tumblr.com/458ce3c702f930b9dbd38d6e2c976c85/tumblr_pmnzysV1TK1uud0vp_1280.jpgwith many thanks to mudblood428, basicbathsheba and penpanoply for beta reads!Never Tear Us Apart Playliston Spotify!





	1. I Got You, That’s All I Want

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same universe as my other Simon and Baz post-canon fics.  
> Plan will be to update weekly or twice a week if possible.  
> There will be a playlist forthcoming on Spotify. It will be in the notes when I get it finished.  
> Spotify playlist posted with many thanks to BasicBathsheba for the HTML conversion!

**Baz**

 

I rush out of my flat, hurtling down the stairs. I narrowly miss bumping into a passerby as I hurry out the building entrance. It’s not my usual decorous pace. 

_Slow down_ , I tell myself, maneuvering along the busy intersections that separate my flat from Simon’s.  But I don’t want to slow down. I don’t want to sedately stroll to his place.  

Every year end I would leave Watford for Hampshire and Simon would leave for an unknown care home. Not that I knew that. Not until eighth year.  

Last summer, I split my time between my family’s lodge and the Bunces’ home. I moved into Fiona’s flat before uni started. 

But this year Simon and I are both in London. 

Today is the first day of our summer holidays. 

The first summer holidays I will spend entirely with Simon. The first summer holidays I’m not leaving him behind.  

That thought makes me walk even faster and soon I’m racing up the steps to his flat.  

I’ve got my key in the door but I can already hear their voices. There’s a Bunce lecture going on, that’s for certain. 

She’s not left yet then. Bunce is heading to America to spend a month with her boyfriend.  She’s bringing him back with her for the end of summer.  

It will be a glorious month where I’ll have Simon all to myself. It’s no wonder I’m rushing.  

I made myself scarce last night, to let them have their last evening together. More from a sense of self-preservation than selflessness.  

Bunce is a menace when she’s on a mission. (Packing for America qualifies.) I’d have been happy to cheer up a moping Simon but when Bunce is on edge it’s catching. Best to steer clear.  

They don’t hear the door open so I catch the tail end of Bunce’s diatribe.  

“So help me, Simon, I don’t want to find a bloody mess when I get back. You have to clean and sweep and try not to eat on the sofa.”

 “I’ll make sure to keep the place clean as a whistle,” Simon says. I know that tone. He’s teasing her. He knows how she feels about the overall unsanitary state of whistles.  

Predictably Bunce snorts. “Whistles aren’t  _clean_ , Simon. We’ve been over this. Full of saliva and bacteria, they are.”

“Yeah, Penny, I know. I know how to keep up the flat. I’ve managed all year. And it’s not like we didn’t clean after ourselves at Watford.” 

“That was all Baz. You certainly never kept your side of the room tidy.” 

“I’ll make sure it’s hygienic, Bunce, never you mind,” I say, as I walk into the kitchen.

I had intended to lean against the doorway and fix Bunce with a stern look, but I’m weak. I’m across the room kissing Simon on the temple instead. “Good morning, love.”

Bunce makes retching noises as Simon slides his arm around me and drops his head to rest on my shoulder. Right where he belongs.  

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you’ve arrived, Baz, so I can tell you both. No snogging in here while I’m gone. It’s a kitchen, not a spare bedroom, so keep your hands to yourselves.” She glares directly at me as she says this.   
  
I raise an eyebrow and pull Simon a little closer to me. “Noted, Bunce. There are perfectly acceptable alternative locations for that.”

She narrows her eyes. “And keep the shagging to the bedroom,” she adds.

“Penny!” Simon’s cheeks flush and he gives her an outraged look. As well he should. Bunce is exaggerating as usual.

We don’t shag. Not yet.

It’s a long story.

Bunce snorts again. “Save me the innocent look, Simon. I live here. I’ve seen how you two are around each other. And the walls are thin.” She glares at him. “Mind you don’t burn the kitchen down when you’re cooking. Baz is a terrible distraction.”

“I most certainly am not,” I say, drawing myself up to my full height so I can sneer down at her. “I’ve averted disaster more than once in here and you know it.” 

She shakes her head. “You don’t get accolades for averting disasters you caused in the first place, Baz. No snogging in the kitchen.” Her eyes glitter triumphantly behind her glasses. “I’ll know. Trust me.” 

I am tired of this haranguing. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

Her eyes dart to her watch then widen in alarm. “Blast it. Premal should be downstairs waiting.”  

She rushes over to Simon and envelops him in a tight embrace, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Be good, be safe, don’t burn the flat down, remember Baz is flammable, I’ll call you when I get to Micah’s.” 

Simon’s hugging her just as tightly. For all my supposed nonchalance, I’m deeply grateful to Bunce. She’s kept Simon in one piece for years now, and she’s kept him going this past year. He’s lucky to have her. 

I’m lucky to have her, I tell myself, and then I am swept into Bunce’s arms. “Take care of yourself, Baz,” she orders, giving me a shake. “Make sure you eat properly and don’t let Simon do anything stupid.” 

Simon’s protests are shut down with a scowl from Bunce. She pulls back to fix her eyes on me, shakes me one last time and then runs out of the kitchen shouting “Don’t snog on the countertops!” 

I hear the rattle of her suitcase wheels and then the thud of the slamming door. 

I pull Simon to me, slide my hands up into his bronze curls and tip my head down to meet his lips. Now our summer has officially started.  

“Baz,” Simon whispers my name against my lips and then his hands are at my waist, pulling me closer. 

I’m taller than he is. He used to hate it but I don’t think he minds as much anymore. But I know he likes it when he can be above me, when I have to reach up for him. 

Bunce isn’t here. I get a good grip on him and lift him onto the countertop. His face is higher than mine now and I revel in his grin as he looks down at me. His legs wrap around my waist to pull me closer and I extend my neck up to reach his lips.

“ ** _Knock it off_**!” Bunce’s voice booms out, echoing around us. We both startle, pulling away from each other, and Simon bounds off the counter, landing off balance and clutching my arm to steady himself.  

“What the bloody hell?” he says, looking around the kitchen wildly.  “Did she come back?” 

I shake my head. She’s bloody spelled the kitchen, that’s what she’s done.  

Simon is rubbing his backside. “It’s like the counter kicked me off,” he complains, his tail lashing about furiously.  

His mobile starts ringing and I can see it’s Bunce when he pulls it out of his pocket. He looks to me.  

“You better answer it. She’ll not let it rest.”

His shoulders sag as he pushes the green “answer” button to accept the call. 

“ _You bloody barbarians_!” I can hear Bunce’s shriek through the speaker. “ _You couldn’t even wait for me to get to the airport before you started defiling the kitchen!_ ” 

“How could you even know?” Simon asks, wrecking any possibility of denial on our part.  

“She spelled it, Simon.” I run my fingertips along the countertop, searching for magickal residue. Bunce is brilliant when she puts her mind to something. I would never have sensed this spell if I wasn’t looking for it specifically. I hadn’t detected it at all.  

Bunce is devious. It pays to stay on her good side. 

She’s still shouting at Simon _. “I bloody well told you, Simon. I told you I’d know. Remember that. And wipe the counter down, you heathens. The antibacterial wipes are under the sink.”_ Bunce’s voice softens. _“Love you both, you ridiculous saps. Try to remember the kitchen is for eating.”_  

I arch an eyebrow at Simon. “No worries, Bunce. We’re quite good at heating things up and swallowing.” 

Simon jams his finger on the red “end call” button just as Bunce’s screeching resumes.

“Baz.” He swats me with his mobile. “You can’t just say things like that. You know that’ll drive her right batty.”

“Hmm.” I lace my fingers with his and pull him to me. “What if I don’t just say them?” I slide my lips along his jawline to that sensitive spot just below his ear.  

Simon’s fingers clench mine. “Then you’ll drive me mad,” he whispers.  

“That’s the whole point now, isn’t it?” I drag him out of the magicked kitchen until we tumble onto the sofa.

 

* * *

**Baz**

 

 

 

 

Dating Simon Snow has not been the erotic gropefest I had fantasized about fifth year. It is infinitely better, although far different from what I had allowed myself to imagine. 

I had imagined a brief, grand passion with the intensity and tragedy of a moth incinerated by the flame that so mesmerized it. 

Not to say Simon doesn’t mesmerize me. He does. Every moment I am with him. But what we have is something slow that keeps building. Something to savor. Something incandescent but neither of us gets burned. 

It’s not the cataclysmic inferno I feared. And I am so very grateful for that. 

Slow suits me. Simon is my first everything. My sexual awakening at 15. First crush, first kiss...I’ll just leave it at that. 

We both have some intimacy issues. I know I do. 

Attachment, abandonment, vulnerability, trust—the whole spectrum, between the two of us. 

One new development this year is that I’m seeing his therapist now too. If you call monthly Skype sessions “seeing”, that is. But she knows Simon. It helps that I can talk things through with someone who knows him, knows what happened to him. To us. Knows what’s going on in his head. She’s very proper and private about it all. She’s also very direct. “ _Talk to Simon about that, Baz, will you?”_  

Talking things through with her gives me the courage to talk to Simon. And sometimes. . . sometimes it’s good to talk to someone about non-Simon things too. How I don’t want to go into the family business. How much I hate LSE. The idea that’s been growing in my mind of what I actually want to do with my life. 

Other than be with Simon, that is. That’s a given. 

I don’t talk to her about the subject that troubles me most. 

My intimacy issues stem from an assortment of reasons but my greatest concern is centered around my condition. The unalterable fact that I am a vampire.  

I trust Simon more than I trust anyone. 

I don’t have that same faith in myself.

I can’t predict what might happen in the unbridled throes of passion. I truly don’t know what to expect. I know that side of me becomes more evident when I am emotionally challenged or in a heightened emotional state. 

My fangs tend to pop at the most inopportune times.  

I’ve never let myself completely lose control with Simon. Not fully. Not in the way you might expect after dating this long. 

I’m afraid to. Some part of me always holds back, stays alert.  

I’m petrified of what I might do, without meaning to. 

I’ve pulled us back from the brink more than once. Simon’s understanding. He’s tolerant of my hesitation even though he thinks my concerns are rubbish.

“I can understand if you’re cautious because this is new and different, Baz, or because you’re just not ready. I can respect that,” he had said, just a few weeks ago. “But I trust you. I’d never hurt you and I know you’d never hurt me. You’ve had ample opportunity and it’s never happened. Not even when the Humdrum was trying to control you, when you were drained of magic and desperate. I don’t see how this could be any worse.” He’d grinned then, the muppet. “I’m thinking it’s got to be a hell of a lot better.” 

He doesn’t push the issue though and I know that’s because he’s not been ready either. He’s trying to get me comfortable but I know he’s hesitant as well. I believe he trusts me, but trust is a sensitive subject for us both.  

We’ve spent so many years only a shade away from outright violence that the tenderness is still new and cherished. 

There’s no need to rush. What we have is more than I ever expected and I’m thankful. 

Not to say that what we have isn’t erotic. His tumbled curls—they’re longer and more often in disarray now due to my wandering hands. The sensuousness of Simon’s bare torso—the constellations of freckles and moles that I trace with my fingertips, my mouth.  The way his muscles ripple under the softness of that tawny skin. How his answering touch makes me quiver with anticipation. That sleepy half-lidded gaze he gives me as he’s waking up. Crowley. Simon’s positively pornographic in the mornings and I can barely keep my hands off him.  

There’s been groping—not quite as fumbling and awkward as it was at first.  

It has led to some embarrassing moments, I won’t argue that. Not what I’ve fantasized exactly, but the reality is still far better than what my mind imagined.  

Not that the bar is very high when my own previous experience is basically limited to desperate, sad wanking. But it’s been surprisingly new territory for Simon too.   
  
It seems Agatha was on too much of a pedestal for him to even indulge in more than an occasional guilt-inducing wank. 

But I don’t think it was all just Agatha either. Simon’s magic troubled him like my condition troubles me. The control of it. Or rather the lack, I should say. His magic would seep out of him so easily when he was upset or emotional. The unintended effects of Simon’s magic were either fantastic or catastrophic. Rarely in between. You never knew which you would get. He never trusted himself to let go. Didn’t want to bring Mummer’s crashing down around us just for the sake of a brief wank. 

His magic’s not here anymore though. Now I’m the one holding back.  

I’m not on a pedestal. I’m right here with him, by his side, every step of the way. Wherever this road leads us, it’s with us together, hand in hand.  

We touch constantly, a reassurance more than anything that we’re both here, that this is real. Even a year later it still seems unbelievable sometimes. We’re close but not cloyingly so. 

Bunce would likely beg to differ but it’s not like either of us especially feel the need to restrain ourselves after over eight years of unresolved tension and three years of oblivious, and in my case despairing, mutual pining. 

I don’t intend to inhibit my access to Simon even for Bunce’s delicate sensitivities. I’ve held back from tenderness to him for so long. I won’t let myself hold back anymore. 

It’s not like she doesn’t snog her American boyfriend when he’s here.

 

* * *

**Baz**

 

It’s been two delectable days of sleeping late, casual breakfasts, soft moments and endless snogging on the sofa. As well as some skilled groping that is nothing short of erotic. This is the best start to summer that I’ve ever had. 

Time stops when I kiss Simon. The moments linger and all I can think about is the softness of his lips, the drag of his fingers in my hair, the warmth of his skin. The feeling that I never want to let him go. I never want the moment to end. It’s bruised lips and wandering hands and whispered words. And the softness of his gaze.  

Monday comes with a barrage of increasingly indignant texts from Mordelia and a phone call from Daphne.  

My step-mother is a kind woman. She is unfailingly considerate and, if I am going to be honest, a godsend to my father and to me in the years after Mother’s loss.  

There were times I felt as if I had lost both my parents in the immediate aftermath of the vampire attack at Watford; my mother to the flames and my father to his abject despair at her loss.  Fiona kept both of us going as well as she could, in her roughshod, brusque and boisterous way. 

Daphne has a gentler touch, with Father and with me. She has never, in any way, attempted to take Mother’s place. She has never shied away from mentions of Mother, never attempted to diminish or erase her presence in our lives or at Pitch Manor. I am eternally grateful and humbled at her sensitivity. She treats me as her biological son, from the early days of her courtship with Father; she has always comforted me, hugged me, watched out for me in her subtle and compassionate way. 

She has never shown any reluctance to be near me nor any attitude other than solicitude for my condition. I was concerned, when the children started arriving, that her manner would change. That she would grow increasingly protective of my younger siblings, distance herself, isolate me.  

That never happened. 

If anything, Daphne went out of her way to include me  _more_ —sharing ultrasound images of each of them, starting with Mordelia, even mailing copies to me at Watford in later years as the family grew. She involved me in preparations for each successive addition to the family, from taking my input on possible names to including me at the baby showers held in their honor. 

She took to Simon right away, her inborn mothering instinct—so strong and comforting to me as a child—immediately asserting itself when she realized Simon was so alone in the world and such an integral part of my life. Truly, even before then. Daphne connected with Simon from that first Christmas. 

She calls on this Monday morning to invite us to spend the weekend with the family at the lodge. The children miss me, she says, and they miss Simon too.

My siblings adore Simon. I think they love him more than they love me. Even Mordelia, the traitor. He’s a natural with children. Magnus trails after him, the twins continually pester him with their awful puns and terrible jokes, and he enjoys it all, the muppet. Mordelia maintains her sarcastic attitude with Simon but it’s softer than it is with me.  

Even my father has warmed to Simon. (Warmed may actually be too mild a term.) He has not told Simon in so many words, but Father was horrified to hear the details of the way the Mage treated him. Treated him not as a child or a student but as the Mage’s personal weapon, to be honed, utilized, and ultimately sacrificed at his sole discretion. It always turned my stomach and it utterly disgusted Father when he became aware of the details.  

Outsiders may have thought my father treated me in the same fashion, that the Old Families thought of me simply as a weapon against the Chosen One. Their best weapon, seeing as I was in such proximity to him.  

But it was never truly that way. I was initially simply a conduit of information, on the Mage and Simon’s doings. I was necessarily in the line of fire, should the Mage and Simon choose to strike at the Old Families directly, due to my being at Watford and being a Pitch. 

 I was also the one who had the best chance at taking down the Mage’s Heir and by default the Mage himself if they came at me, by virtue of that same proximity. 

But it was my choice to put myself forward in this cause. It was my idea to persuade Father to let me bear the responsibility of being the Old Families’ agent at Watford, not only their eyes and ears, even though he argued against it initially.  

It was my unspoken decision to sacrifice myself in that ultimate, inescapable showdown with Simon that I knew lurked on the horizon. It was all there in the prophecy.

It was my choice because I loved Simon and it was the only way I could find that would give him a chance of surviving, and simultaneously keep the Old Families believing that I was dedicated to the cause.  

It had never been Father’s goal to endanger me just to get back at the Mage. If anything, I pressured him into it, against his better judgement. To have knowingly and resolutely forced me into that role, against my will, would have gone against his nature.  

Father didn’t want me to go back eighth year. Not after the numpty incident.

I think it was hearing about Simon being sent to the care homes in the summers that tipped the scales for my father. No matter his disdain for the Mage and for what Simon signified as the Mage’s Heir, Father was rightly horrified that the Mage basically discarded Simon and let him moulder and languish in those awful homes every year. 

“Basilton, I would have offered to take him in, here, had I known.” Father had been sitting behind his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him, after one of the particularly grueling Coven inquiry sessions into the Mage’s death. Simon had headed home with the Bunces and Father had brought me to the lodge for the weekend. “No matter who he was, Chosen One or not, no child deserved that kind of treatment. Once David Llewellyn had made Simon his presumptive heir, he should have been bound to provide a home for that child. Year round. Not just during the school term. It was unspeakably cruel to do that to the boy, year after year.” 

My father puts on a forbidding front, but those who know him well are aware of his core of consideration; the Mage’s treatment of Simon was an affront not only to Father’s innate sense of decency but to his genuine feelings as a parent as well. 

“He didn’t even bother to officially make Simon his ward, Father.” That disturbing fact had come out at that day’s inquiry. The Mage had gone to all the trouble of verbally declaring Simon his Heir to the Families and the Coven, had completed the paperwork for Watford with that implied relationship but had never actually codified it. It was appalling. And cruel. It was a spoken commitment but not a genuine one.  

One more reason for me to hate that man. 

I tell Daphne that I’ll speak to Simon, but that we have no other commitments and will most likely make it down for the weekend. Then I text Mordelia to stop pestering me and that I will see her Friday. Of course, she immediately texts me back to make sure I am bringing Simon with me.   
  
As if I would leave him behind.  

Simon grins when I tell him about Daphne’s invitation. “I’ve missed the little ‘uns. And I’ll never say no to eating at the Club or at your parents.” 

“You are incorrigible, you barbarian. All it takes to win you over is good food and plenty of it. Is that why you decided to kiss me that night in the forest? So you’d still be welcome for Christmas dinner?” 

Simon tackles me before I can continue my teasing. I fall back on the sofa, his strong arms pushing me down, his legs tangled in my own and his face hovering over me. “You know how much I love roast beef, Baz.” 

“I know how much I love you,” I whisper, unable to keep teasing when he’s got his arms on me like this, when he’s leaning over me this way. I reach up, taking in his grin as I do, and kiss him.  

Simon’s lips meet mine and his lower body settles down between my legs, his chest resting on mine, fingers tangled in my hair as my arms reach around his waist. His wings flutter widely once and then fold around him, sheltering us both under their canopy. The light is muted in the haven of his embrace, the sunlight filtering through the red of his wings, bathing Simon in a rosy glow. He pulls back and raises an eyebrow.  

He’s been practicing that, the infuriating git.  

“What?”  

“You’re staring,” Simon says. “See something you like?” He smirks down at me, the sunlight highlighting his tawny skin and multitude of moles. 

“I’m not staring.”

“You were. Usually you close your eyes as soon as I get that close, but not this time.”

I was staring. I am staring. I don’t think Simon will ever understand just how breath-taking he is. He looks in the mirror and sees an ordinary bloke, as he says, unremarkable in every way except for the wings and tail.   
  
He’s so very wrong. I’ve told him that. I think he’s starting to believe me but sometimes I’m not sure he truly does. 

I’m so weak for this boy. “I don’t want to look away.  I want to drink in the sight of you, Simon Snow, to convince myself again that this is real and not some dream I’m having.” 

“It’s not a dream. Might be a nightmare, seeing as I’ve got creepy dragon wings and a tail.” He always tries to laugh off those appendages of his. It’s been over a year and even though he’s adjusted to the inconvenience of them he still harbors conflicted feelings about their existence. Vestiges of his magic. Relics of a time when he was more than he is now, in his opinion. A sign that he is between worlds, not a Mage in his own estimation but also eternally never a Normal.  

It breaks my heart every time.  

Simon deserves so much better than this. Deserves to be full of magic still, deserves to be a Mage. To have merited the respect of the Magickal world, to have been able to finish his time at Watford like the rest of us. Not be mistreated and broken by his mentor, drained of his magic by the very entity he gave his lifeblood time and time again to overcome.  

Drained by his own sacrifice, at his own volition, to save a world that judged him and belittled him and never adequately respected him. 

Myself included. There are times I think back on the things I would say to him, the ways I would use my words to hurt him, to wound him, to make him feel as bleak and empty as I felt, and I shudder at my cruelty.  

Simon’s voice breaks through my spinning thoughts. “Stop it.” He brushes my hair back with a gentle touch. “Stop the thinking, Baz. For such a brilliant bloke you really can be thick as a brick sometimes.” His thumb strokes my cheekbone.  “In case you didn’t notice we’re having a moment here. Come back to now, Baz, and forget about whatever dismal time in the past your mind has taken you to. You’re bound to be overthinking it anyway, knowing you.” The cheeky grin is back, but his eyes are serious. They’re deep and blue and I would willingly drown in them. “Keep your eyes open, if you want, but I’m here with you and I’m real and this is us.” 

He bends down and his lips touch my forehead, trail a line of kisses to my mouth and then further, along my neck, to my collarbone, a gasp leaving me as the heat of his touch sears through me. 

I’m here, with Simon. Where I am supposed to be.  

The past is behind us. Our future stretches out ahead, bright and clear and free of the weight of what came before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the Split Ends song I Got You


	2. Star-Crossed Lovers and Their Tragic Fates

 

**Simon**

 

If you’d asked me at Watford, about me ever visiting Baz’s family at their home, I’d have said that was pure rubbish. Wouldn’t ever happen. Not willfully on my part. Maybe if Baz kidnapped me or something. 

And then I ended up hightailing it there with the news about Nicodemus that Christmas. Not intending to visit, mind you, even though that’s what ended up happening. In a manner of speaking. More ‘ _invited to stay’_ by Baz, if we’re being accurate, and also having no way home that first night.  

Then running back there in the snow and muck because I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving him. 

It was awkward, that first year, after I left Watford. Awkward seeing the Grimms, knowing what had happened to Pitch Manor because of me. What had happened to all of Hampshire.  

But strangely enough they weren’t blaming me. Mr. Grimm never mentioned it, even when I caught him just before one of the hearings and tried to apologize. He’d just clapped a hand on my shoulder and said “Couldn’t be helped, Simon. Couldn’t be helped. Not to worry. It will sort itself.” Penny had to elbow me in the ribs to stop me gaping at him like a barmy git. 

Baz had insisted on taking me home with him a few times last summer, before we all moved to London. I wasn’t too keen but after all we’d been through, I felt like I owed it to him. I’d displaced his family from their home. If he wanted me to visit with him then I would and make a right apology about it all. 

But again Mr. Grimm wouldn’t hear of it. Neither would Mrs. Grimm. 

Mordelia let me apologize. Said I should apologize for disappearing also. Thought it was rude that I’d just buggered off into the night, without even saying goodbye. 

I quite like Mordelia. She’s basically a female version of Baz, just years younger, a fair bit shorter and not quite as sardonic. Yet.  She’s working on it though. She’s got the eyebrow thing down but hasn’t quite got the sneer.  

I like all of Baz’s siblings really. Ophelia and Acantha tell me the worst jokes but I can’t help laughing at them. I still have trouble telling them apart though they don’t know that. At least I don’t think they do. They’re Baz’s siblings so maybe they do know and are just humouring me. Or dressing alike when I visit just to confuse me. Yeah, that’s probably it.  

And then there’s Magnus. Wears me out, he does, now that he’s walking and running and climbing things. He’s full of mischief, that one. 

I didn’t think I’d ever say I liked Mr. Grimm—Malcolm, he wants me to call him but I just can’t do it, feels all wrong when I try—but just like Baz’s mum he’s not how the Mage made him out to be either.  

I do like him. Him and Mrs. Grimm both. 

I’m not sure when I started to like them, to realize they were just like everyone else, except a whole lot posher. Maybe it was that first Christmas. Or maybe during the inquiry, when Mr. Grimm would come and sit by Dr. Wellbelove and Penny and me. When he’d grip my shoulder and quietly say “Simon” when he’d pass by me.  

Or when he’d agreed Metropolitan was a good place for me to study in London. And then made it happen.  

It was probably the weekend Baz took me home with him, a few weeks into last summer’s holidays, after he’d left Watford.  The inquiry was finished, the whole bloody mess was finally over. I was relieved, conflicted and tired of the whole fucking thing.  

I’d blinked out a bit, at dinner, while Baz and his father talked about it all. I did that still, back then, blink out. Not so much anymore.  

Anyway, Baz and Mr. Grimm were debating something someone had said about the Mage using me more as a weapon against the Humdrum than the Old Families. I just caught the tail end of it and Mr. Grimm was stating that the Mage had long ago set himself against the Old Families and that as his Heir they’d assumed I harbored the same grievances and prejudices. Seeing as he was my mentor and all.  

That was true. He had tried to do that, set me against the Old Families, made me think they were against him, against me, and thwarting us in our search for a way to defeat the Humdrum. It was all bollocks, of course. They wanted the Humdrum gone more than he did, in the end. 

 “He’s the one who called it a War with the Old Families,” I had said, startling them both by jumping into their conversation. “Said it would come down to that, when I would ask him why we weren’t focusing on just defeating the Humdrum. Because the Old Families were against him and that’s why we couldn’t all be in league to stop the Humdrum.” 

Mr. Grimm had frowned. “It wasn’t that way, Simon. We were frustrated that he was focusing his efforts on goading and antagonizing us instead of the real danger to the World of Mages—the Humdrum. Of course, with what we know now, about his nefarious deal with the vampires...it is clear he always considered us his enemy.” 

“The final showdown.” 

“What?” Mr. Grimm had said to me sharply.  

“I’d always expected it would end up with me and Baz, in the end. The final showdown, the duel to end the War with the Old Families.” I’d looked at Baz as I said that. He was looking down, eyes hooded. I hated to think about it too. About how we both thought it would end, back then. It’s not something either of us like to talk about. 

“What duel? What showdown? What are you talking about?” Mr. Grimm had looked from Baz to me, his words clipped and stern. 

“The duel to the death. Baz and me. We knew it’d come down to that. The Mage knew it. I’d come to expect it and Baz seemed to think so too.” 

“Basilton?” Mr. Grimm’s voice had grown sharper. “What is Simon talking about?” 

Baz had crossed his arms and frowned.  

I’d turned to Mr. Grimm. “I was the champion for the Mage’s side of things. Baz was yours.” He knew this. He had to know this, had been plotting for that outcome the whole time. He’d been the leader of the resistance against the Mage, after all. 

“What do you mean champion? What on earth are you going on about, Simon? The Families didn’t put forth a champion. Baz was on reconnaissance for information regarding the Mage primarily and you by default.” 

“Not to say we didn’t try to take you down a peg, Chosen One.” Fiona had chimed in. She’d been visiting that weekend too, much to my dismay. She was as intimidating as Mr. Grimm. Even more I’d say. 

She still is intimidating but she’s also damn funny I’ve come to realize. Back then I found her exceedingly alarming.

“Take me down a peg? More like tried to kill me,” I’d muttered. 

“If I’d wanted you dead, boyo, you’d be dead already,” Fiona had snapped back. 

“Enough, Fiona,” Baz had growled. “Stop threatening Simon.” 

Fiona had rolled her eyes at him. “You should know when I’m being threatening, Baz. This isn’t threatening.”

“Still,” I’d pressed, warming to the subject because it still rankled. “You tried to get Baz to steal my voice. That would have ended me being a Mage.” 

Fiona had rolled her eyes again. “Wouldn’t have killed you and wouldn’t have been permanent. Don’t be so melodramatic, Snow.” 

“Simon,” Mr. Grimm had broken in again. “Granted, there were some underhanded activities on both sides.” He’d paused to glare Fiona into silence and then continued. “But there was never any plan to kill the Mage or you. Incapacitate you, defuse the Mage’s greatest weapon, perhaps yes. But there was no nefarious plot to do more than fight back for our rights on the Coven, secure a Magickal World safe from the scourge of the Humdrum, avoid having our children harmed by the foul creatures that kept finding their way to Watford, and getting him out of the Headmaster position for good. Whatever gave you the idea that we were out to murder you both?” 

“You weren’t? But he always said that the Old Families resented him, resented me. That his reforms were a threat to your way of life and you wouldn’t rest until you’d destroyed him. And me,” I’d added.

“Resent sounds about right,” Fiona had said. “But we’re not evil. It’s not like we’d murder children to do it. What a load of rubbish he fed you, Snow. I told you—if I’d wanted you dead I certainly wouldn’t have done it by taking your voice away.” She’d glared at me. “There are far quicker ways.” 

“Do be quiet, Fiona. You’re not helping.” Mr. Grimm had interrupted again.

This was making my head hurt. If they hadn’t intended for Baz to be their champion against me then why had he made me think so? I looked at him.

Baz was paler than usual, arms folded over his chest, eyebrows lowered. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Baz?” 

“I thought it’s what you wanted,” he’d finally said. “I thought that’s how you expected it would end. You and me. To the death. You kept telling me that, Simon. You kept accusing me of plotting against you, of trying to kill you. Why wouldn’t I think that was the plan, on your side?” 

“But you  _were_ plotting, you utter wanker!” I’d shouted. “You were always plotting, trying to get me off balance, trying to make me doubt my magic, my place at Watford, my right to be part of the World of Mages. Plotting to steal my voice, trying to kill me or scare me or whatever with the chimaera. Why would I think it was going to be anything other than you and me, at the end?” 

He’d glared right back at me. “I chose to make you think it was me. I chose to be the Old Families’ champion. I wasn’t about to ask permission or submit a written request to the Coven.” A quick sidelong look at his father and then his gaze had come right back to me, his grey eyes dark and stormy.  “It had to be me at the end. And you know why, Simon.  So when it came down to you or me at the end of it all, I could make sure it was you who walked away. Because if I fell, if I let you live, then it would be over and I’d know you were alright.” 

Fiona slammed her hand on the table. “Are you mad, Basilton? Fucking insane? Do you really think that’s how it would have gone down, if you’d tried some noble dramatic shit and let the fucking Chosen One kill you? I’d have killed him and his precious Mage in a heartbeat and damn the consequences.”

Mr. Grimm had raised his voice too. “Silence, Fiona.” He’d turned his gaze back to Baz. “You truly mean to tell me, Basilton, that you expected the Old Families to allow you to duel Simon to the death? You truly believed I would countenance that? That I would somehow support children attempting to kill each other? When I did everything in my power to keep you alive all those years ago, did everything I could to keep your condition our secret and let you live as normal a life as you could, despite it? You think I would have sat back and simply mourned your death and not scorched the very earth and shattered the walls of Watford itself if that had happened? That I would let you, my son--the only surviving link I have to your mother—sacrifice yourself? What would ever make you think that?” 

Fiona snorted. “They were both idiots, Malcolm. It’s clear. These two melodramatic fucking gits actually thought they were the crux of the whole thing and that if one of them managed to off the other it would solve the whole matter. It’s just the sort of ridiculous, dark, emo bullshit you would expect from teenagers. Crowley, it’s like some goth Romeo and Juliet except they’re offing each other instead of themselves. Leave it to tall, dark, and existentially despairing over here to dream up something like this.”

It had been an entirely awkward afternoon. 

I had a far better opinion of Mr. Grimm after that conversation. I’d resented Baz’s family for years for putting us in that situation. For forcing him into that role. I hadn’t realized the sappy wanker had put himself up for duty. Stupid git.  

I love him, the bloody tosser. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from For the Portuguese Goth Metal Bands by The Mountain Goats.


	3. I Like Candy When It's Wrapped in a Sweater

 

**Simon**

 

The drive to the Grimm lodge is lovely. Sunny day, windows open to let the breeze in, Baz’s music playing in the car, and my hand resting on his thigh as he drives.  

I still can’t quite believe how many homes the Grimms have. Pitch Manor in Hampshire, unusable now due to the whole miserable Humdrum incident, this lodge near Oxford, the mansion near Galloway—Baz calls it a cottage but it’s a fucking castle, if you ask me. Then Daphne’s family estate in the south of France. I’m sure I’ve forgotten one. Some posh place in Paris or New York or fucking Hong Kong. 

Oh right. The place in California. I’d forgotten that one. I can’t keep them all straight.  

The lodge isn’t as creepy as Pitch Manor. I quite liked it when we first visited—liked the sword displays in the main hall.  

I’m still somewhat fond of it but less so since I found out about Smaug. I can’t believe Baz, who’s dangerously flammable, has a pet dragon that lives in the woods. A _miniature_ pet dragon but still. It breathes smoke and flame so it’s wildly inappropriate as a pet, if you ask me. But nobody seems to care to hear my opinion on it.  

Baz introduced us, if that’s what you’d call it, last winter, when we came up here for the holiday. Damn near gave me a heart attack when he went to pet the bloody thing. He says Smaug is harmless but I doubt it. 

There’s no such thing as a harmless dragon.  

It’s still early in the afternoon when we arrive. The little ‘uns swarm Baz when we get there and Daphne pulls me into a warm hug. She always seems to know how to make me feel welcome, whether it’s a hug or a pat on the arm or simply announcing that she’s got roast beef ready for our dinner. 

She knows how much I love roast beef. 

Mr. Grimm shakes Baz’s hand, then mine, and allows himself a smile. They’re rare, those smiles of his, but they’re nice to see and they come more frequently now.  

I’m practically knocked off my feet by Magnus, who’s abandoned Baz to fling himself at my legs. I shake my head at him. “How do you keep getting bigger?” I ask, then pick him up and hoist him to settle on my shoulders as he grabs at my hair to keep himself steady. “Look at you, you’re taller than Baz now.” That makes him laugh. 

It’s so much livelier than that first night of mine at Pitch Manor. It always is now. I don’t know if it’s them being more comfortable with me or me being less suspicious of them but things are good when I’m with them.  

They’re more like family to me now.  

That thought makes me flush and I try to rationalize it in my head. They’re like Penny’s family, I tell myself. Friendly. Kind. Caring. That’s all. Nothing more.  

We end up playing some ridiculous game with the twins after dinner. It’s cards and strategy and alliances. I’m hopelessly confused and get soundly trounced by them all. Standard fare for me with this lot.  

Even Magnus is hopelessly competitive.   

“Thought we’d go to the Club tomorrow,” Daphne says, as she chivvies the young ones off to bed. “Would you like that, Simon? It’s supposed to be a lovely day and I know you and Baz haven’t had a chance to get on the courts much this year.” 

Baz is an excellent tennis player, which should come as no surprise to anyone. He’s good at  _everything_. Used to drive me mental but I don’t mind it so much now.  

He’s a consummate athlete; strong, fast, graceful, and fucking ruthless. He’s been trying to teach me to play tennis but honestly, I’d rather watch him play. Baz is stunning in tennis whites, the firm lines of his muscular legs exposed, dark hair pulled back in a bun, sunglasses perfectly positioned on that patrician nose of his. It’s a glorious sight.  

“That’d be alright then,” I say. “Sounds like a grand idea.

I spend the morning watching Baz successively and successfully destroy Dev, some older gentleman and an overconfident bloke in his mid-twenties, at tennis. There’s a breathtaking moment, at the end of his second match, when Baz lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow, exposing the taut, rippling muscles of his abdomen.  

It takes me back to Watford, to watching him on the pitch, seeing him do that when he played football and never letting myself think about why it made something flutter in my chest.   

I wait for him to shower and Daphne comes by to let me know the little ‘uns want to stay in the pool and that Baz and I should go ahead and eat without them.  

I’m all for that. I’m hungry. 

I never went to the club with Agatha. She always said there wasn’t much going on at the Club over the holidays and that things were just too busy at her house what with her parents’ big party but it never seemed to stop Mrs. Wellbelove from going. 

 I think Agatha was embarrassed. Not of the Club. Of me. Embarrassed to take me there, to introduce me to the other magickal families. The Old Families.

Baz takes me there almost every time we visit his family. He took me a few times last summer. And over the winter holidays too. For a seven-course meal and Madrigal singers. It was splendid. Even better than the food at Watford and the singers were quite nice too. 

I guess that makes me think Agatha was lying. I don’t really care anymore although it does please me no end that Baz likes to bring me here. That we go to dinner together. And for tea. And for walks in the gardens and he holds my hand where everyone can see. 

I’m still embarrassing, of course. I don’t remember which fork to use and I talk with my mouth full or mumble and fidget at the table.  

But Baz doesn’t care. He calls me a bloody barbarian but he gets such a fond look on his face when he says it that I know he doesn’t really mean it. And he bumps my leg or squeezes my thigh with his hand when I’m being particularly stupid but then his leg stays pressed to mine and his hand lingers so I know it’s alright then.  

I don’t get as nervous about it all when I’ve got Baz with me. Some older blokes had chaffed me a bit, the first time he’d taken me there. But Baz just froze them with a look and a few cutting remarks and they steer well clear of us now.  

I like the Club. The rooms are posh and look like they belong in some country estate of the Queen’s. All dark paneling and hunting scenes on the wall, rich Oriental rugs and deep leather armchairs. Not as creepy as Pitch Manor but just as aristocratic. 

And the food. I can’t say enough good things about the food although Baz thinks I say altogether too much about it. It’s good. Really good. 

Baz did try to teach me how to play tennis last summer. I wasn’t as bad as I expected I’d be. Baz thinks it’s due to all my sword work and quick reflexes—they translate fairly well to tennis, surprisingly enough.   
  
The wings do not. 

I do like to play but I get far too distracted. I’d much rather look at Baz. It’s what throws off my game. Well, that and the wings.  

I end up watching him rather than the ball. He’s grace and power on the court. He moves with such precision, so focused, so intense. I’d say that’s what I appreciate the most but it’s not. I like seeing him in his tennis whites. He looks less pale in them and I can see the play of the muscles in his forearm. And his legs. 

 

Baz has fantastic legs. They’re so long and he’s so fit. I can’t keep my eyes off him. I couldn’t help telling him so, the first time I watched him play. Made him flush it did, and that’s not that easy to get Baz to do if he hasn’t fed recently. 

But he just played it off. “Fit as a goblin, Simon?”

He likes to tease me about goblins.  Says that should have been my first clue I wasn’t straight—finding goblins so fit. 

I like it when he teases me now. It’s not like he used to, back at Watford.  

I love Baz’s sharp wit, his rapid-fire responses, his cutting commentary.  

I used to hate it. But he doesn’t use it to hurt me anymore. He’s always got a quirk to his lips that tells me he’s joking, a fond look on his face and a tenderness in his eyes that makes my heart race.  

He’s in his element with Penny. It’s like a verbal tennis match, the two of them. Lobbing the comments back and forth, parrying with sharp words and occasionally scoring an ace. She’d come down with us, for a weekend last fall.  

Penny hates the Club. Calls it “elitist wastefulness” but I know she likes the library there. And the food too.  

She quite keen on the Grimm lodge. Captivated by the library and I think a little disappointed the wraiths didn’t move there with the family. Penny has an unhealthy fascination with wraiths.  

That’s the one good thing about the Grimms having to move. No wraiths. Penny can have them, as far as I’m concerned.  

Although I’m almost grateful to them for forcing me to take shelter in Baz’s room that night. 

I always stay in Baz’s room when we visit the Grimms now. No pretense of a guest room for me. Mrs. Grimm is quite nonchalant about it. Mr. Grimm used to widen his eyes when Baz and I would retire for the night together.  

He’s much better about it now. He loves Baz too much to press the issue and he’s become more at ease with me as well. He realizes how much we mean to each other. He sees it when we’re together.  

I think he’d been fixated on the Pitch name more because of Baz’s mum than any other reason. 

The Grimm name will go on—Magnus will carry that. I know Mr. Grimm hoped that Baz would have children, to pass along the Pitch legacy. It was important to him. Baz says his father adored his mum and the thought of her family line dying out has been upsetting to him.  
  
Fiona’s certainly not going to carry it on. I have my doubts she’ll ever settle down. 

Mr. Grimm has come around. He’s come to terms with me, with how Baz feels about me, how I feel about him, our whole relationship.  

He’s also come to terms with the fact that there won’t be a Pitch heir, even if Baz were straight or willing to put up with a marriage of convenience for an heir.  

Which he’s not. Not straight nor willing to put up with the convenience thing, I mean.  

That subject was put quite to rest a few months ago, during an excruciating dinner at the Grimm’s lodge. I had no idea I could blush that hard.  

Mrs. Grimm had been forced to send the children off with Vera, when the clinical nature of the conversation became a bit too explicit.  

I’d wished someone had sent me off with them. 

Mr. Grimm had gone on about an heir to the Pitch name again that night, long enough to cause Fiona to roll her eyes and huff at him. I don’t know why we always end up having these agonizing conversations on the weekends Fiona chooses to visit. It’s always like that. She visits a fair bit so that’s part of it too, I suppose. 

Mr. Grimm had been trying to lobby for surrogacy—a new angle for him—since he had long accepted that Baz wasn’t willing to produce an heir the old-fashioned way. 

I’d seen Baz angry before. He typically gets cold and clipped and more and more polite. He’d been doing that—going all icy and distant—but Mr. Grimm wasn’t backing off this time. Made my skin tingle, Baz’s expression did. I’d likely have gone off, if I’d still had my magic.  

I think Baz was as close to going off as I’ve ever seen him. But then he leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at his father.  

“You do realize this is all quite pointless?” 

“It isn’t pointless, Basilton,” Mr. Grimm had insisted. “Normals do this all the time. Wellbelove tells me some magickal families have also. In fact, the Hallidays niece had to do something of the sort. In vitro. With a surrogate due to that awful riding accident she had years back. Pelvic issues, I believe.” 

Fiona had snorted. “Ariadne never had a good seat. She’d only insisted on riding so she could stay close to Francis that day.”  
  
Mr. Grimm stared her down. “Well, she managed to marry him so I’d say her plan worked. And that’s of no relevance, Fiona. I’d think you’d be on my side on this issue.” 

They had squabbled for a while as I tore a bread roll into shreds on my plate.  Baz had stayed impassive, his face as still as if it were chiseled out of solid marble. His fingers, twined with mine under the table, had been as cold as if he truly were made of stone. 

It wasn’t long before Mr. Grimm had turned his attention back to Baz. “It would be a simple arrangement, Basilton. A suitable family, a suitable surrogate and then...” he had paused to clear his throat “a donation on their part. All that would be required then would be a similar...donation on your part.” He had fixed his eyes on Baz. “It shouldn’t be a hardship for you to do that? All in a day’s work?” 

Baz’s hand had slammed down on the table, rattling the silverware. He’d leaned forward to glare at his father. “I believe it is my choice to wank, when and where I choose to do so, or find other activities to indulge my fancy in this matter.”

Fiona had snickered. 

I’d wished I had magic to spell myself away. I’d never been so embarrassed in my life. Particularly because at that point. . . well. . . Baz and I hadn’t really fully  _explored_ that part of our relationship yet. 

We still haven’t _fully_ explored it. Not completely.  

Things are good. Really good. Even then things were good. Far better than good in that department but we’d been taking the slow route to intimacy, seeing as it was a first for both of us. We’re still taking it slow. A bit slower than I’d like actually but we both have our fair share of issues still.  

It was completely mortifying at the time, to realize that Baz’s whole family was convinced we were shagging. I couldn’t look anywhere but down at my plate, face burning. I gave Baz a sidelong look and was gratified to see that whatever blood was sloshing in him at the moment had made its way to his face as well. 

He had looked stunning and I couldn’t help but turn to look at him fully. He’s just magnificent when he’s in a full snit and he was fucking glorious at that moment. The color in his face just made him even more striking than usual.  

I had shut my gaping mouth with a snap, realizing my besotted adoration of him only made the topic at hand more humiliating. 

But unfortunately, Baz wasn’t done.  

“What might have escaped your notice, in this elaborate heir-producing fantasy of yours, is the fact that there is no evidence that people with  _my condition_ can actually reproduce in the traditional way.” He’d leaned back, eyes still narrowed. “I doubt there’s much research in the literature on sperm count and viability in vampires. In case it’s escaped your memory they usually create more of themselves in a much less pleasurable way.” 

I’d wondered then if a person could actually spontaneously combust. At that point in time I’d not had my magic for some months but it still felt like I might go off. I was sweating and couldn’t look at anyone in that room. Especially not Fiona.  

I could hear Mr. Grimm clear his throat. “Basilton. I’m sure there are ways to...” 

But Baz hadn’t let him finish. “I have told you—I most certainly am not wanking into a cup to procreate a child. I am under no circumstances wanking into a cup to have my sperm count checked. There is no point. End of discussion. This conversation is over. I am the last of the Pitch line unless Fiona decides to do something about it. Considering the likeliest candidate she’s got shares in my little  _problem_ I’d say chances are nil.”  

He’d stood up then and looked down at me. “Come along, Simon. Let’s see if we can do better than just talking about wanking.” 

And then we left, silence echoing behind us in the Grimm dining room. 

“What the bloody hell was that?” I’d sputtered, chasing Baz up the stairs. I’d trotted after him but he was storming down the hall to his room. I’d followed him in, shutting the door behind me. 

“Baz.” 

He’d just stood there, silent, turned away. I’d stepped closer, put a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were rigid under my fingertips. I’d slid my hand down to his back and started rubbing circles onto the taut planes of it. “If it’s about me...“ 

“It’s not about you, Simon. Trust me. I can understand my father’s preoccupation with this issue, but he’s ignoring the facts. The fact is you can’t create life when you’re not actually alive.” He was still facing away from me.  

“You are alive, Baz. You keep harping on the fact that you’re not but you’re wrong. I’ve told you that. I can feel your heartbeat. You’re the farthest thing from not alive. You’re a bit chilly to snuggle up to most times, mind you, but you’re as alive as ever.”  

I’d slid my arms around his chest and rested my head against his back. “I can feel it, your heart, I can feel it right now.” It had been thundering under my hands. I’d kept silent for a moment. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. This was between Baz and his father.  

But it did concern me. I didn’t know where this was going, the two of us. Neither of us did. 

Neither of us do now either but I think we’ve got a far better idea of where we want it to go. At least I do.  

I think Baz does too. He’s just had a harder time making himself believe it, he’d spent so much time convincing himself what we have now could never happen. 

But back then I didn’t know what the future held in store for us, if it held anything more than the few months we’d had. I was still managing more or less one day at a time. But if this was going to be something more I needed to tell him it was ok. That I was ok with it. 

“Baz. I don’t mind it. Really, I don’t. I know you’re not ready for something like that but if you are or might be someday I’m not going to object. I’m not going to stand in the way of it. If that’s something you want or need in the future then I’m going to support it, any way I can.” 

“You can’t mean that.” 

“I do. I don’t know where we’re going. I’m not even sure what tomorrow is going to bring. But if having a Pitch heir is important to you, if it’s something that can happen someday and you want it? Then I’ll be right by your side, doing whatever I can to make it happen.”  

I’d meant it. I’d never thought about children or the long term with Baz before that night. I mean I had, I’d imagined it, daydreamed about it a bit, but it hadn’t seemed like something real.  

The dinner conversation that night had made it real. And the feeling in my chest, once the embarrassment had faded, was one I’d recognized. I wanted this, wanted Baz, wanted a future with him. And if that included a child to carry on the Pitch name then so much the better. 

“I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I can have. I’ve wanted you for so long and it still doesn’t seem real that you’re even here.” 

“I’m here, Baz. For as long as you want me with you, I’m here.” 

“I’d want you for fucking eternity, if that were possible.” 

I’d slid my arms down to his waist. “It might be possible. We haven’t gotten a definitive denial on that from Nicodemus yet.” 

Baz had snorted but his hands had come to rest on mine. The tension had seeped out of him as I’d pressed closer.  

“Alright then, Baz?” 

He’d spun in my arms and cupped my face with his hands. “Come here, you gorgeous fuck.” His cold lips pressed against mine.   

It was a few moments before we’d come up for air. “Baz.” I tried again.

“Simon, I think I have effectively laid that topic of conversation to rest.  As I told my father, I have no interest in continuing to discuss pointless wanking. I’d much rather be snogging my boyfriend.” 

Which is exactly how we had spent the rest of that evening. Snogging. And well, perhaps a bit more than snogging but a lot less than the Grimms might have expected. 

Mr. Grimm has never mentioned the subject again and he’s quite serene now when Baz and I retire for the night or stumble out of the room in the morning for breakfast.  

Baz finally comes out of the Club locker room, his hair just the way I like it, not slicked back and severe but falling around his face in waves. He’s gorgeous on a bad day, but when he lets his hair just do its thing he’s bloody spectacular.  

We settle down to lunch on the terrace. I inhale my food because it’s bloody spectacular too and end up watching Baz tuck into his tiramisu. I never knew he loved sweet things so much at Watford.  

I never actually saw him eat at Watford. Not really. Not more than salt and vinegar crisps. I don’t remember seeing him eat actual food. 

Not until Pitch Manor. 

He eats around people now. He and Penny came up with a spell for his fangs so he’s not so self-conscious about eating in public anymore. 

Baz has an incredible sweet tooth. The drinks he orders from Starbucks are basically sugar with a hint of coffee. And gigantic dollops of whipped cream.  

I’m not kidding. They make my teeth ache. But he loves them. Doesn’t put on a spot of weight either, the tosser. 

It bothers me that I didn’t know this about him. He knows what I like and don’t like (there’s very little I dislike when it comes to food.) 

Baz paid attention. Noted things. Because he cared. 

I just muddled my way through, not bothering. 

But I bother now. I know how to order that ridiculous Starbucks concoction he loves. I buy enough Mint Aeros for both of us when I go to the store.  

And I make a chocolate mousse that drives him mad. Those are good nights. I’ll not say anything more about it. 

Right now, I just want to watch Baz eat this tiramisu.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song I Want Candy by Bow Wow Wow


	4.  Just Can’t Get Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope to be posting once or twice a week! Playlist on Spotify coming shortly.

****

**Baz**

I would think Simon was coveting my tiramisu if I hadn’t just watched him consume an appalling amount of food. But I know this expression of his, I’ve become familiar with the intensity of it, these last few months, and I’m well aware it’s not my food that’s preoccupying him.

I silently thank Bunce for the assistance with the  ** _“pearly whites”_** spell, the one that lets me eat in public now.  

The way Simon watches me eat is spectacularly arousing. He looks as if he would be happy to devour _me_. 

I’ll raise no objections to that. I remember quite vividly how it felt to look at him,  _to want him_ so desperately, back when I was fifteen and couldn’t decide if I wanted to bite him or kiss him insensible.  

Back then it had soon become apparent to me that kissing him was my obsession, that particular desire overwhelming any urge to bite him.   

I know that look. I’ve had that look. Simon used to call it my _’attack_ ’ look. He was only partly right. I did want to jump him but not in the way he had assumed.  

I know what Simon wants to do to me right now.  

But we’re at the Club, which means minimal opportunity for even covert snogging.  

I continue to drag out each bite, savoring the intensity of his gaze, teasing the moment out for my benefit as much as his. 

It’s indulgent of me to do it. It’s not like we have the kind of privacy I’d prefer, seeing as we’re staying at the lodge again tonight and it’s nowhere near as vast as the Manor. Soundproofing spell and locks on doors notwithstanding, I’d rather avoid getting too carried away with Simon under my father’s roof.  

It’s become more challenging to hold off, to control myself, these last few months. I just can’t bring myself to trust. Not Simon. I trust him implicitly, with every fibre of my being.  

I don’t trust in my ability not to lose myself in the moment. I can only go so far and then I retreat, pull back, force myself to steady my breathing and dampen the passion from frantic desperation to controlled sensuality.  

It works. For now. I don’t know how long I can hold off anymore. This week of uninterrupted time with Simon has pushed my boundaries. I had thought he was still hesitant to move forward, was comfortable moving at the glacial pace I was setting, but I may have underestimated him.  

Looking at him now I know I have.  

I finish the last few bites of the tiramisu rapidly, eyes on the table, gaze averted from Simon. It’s not fair of me to tease him like that, if I’m not going to make good on the promise of my performance. 

I can’t make good. Not yet.  

I don’t know how to move past this.  

I don’t know how to stop retreating. 

I have to talk to him, we need to discuss this, but I dread it. Simon has so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. He has far more faith than I do, that I won’t let myself get lost in the moment.  

I don’t want to disappoint him.  

I don’t want to alarm him.  

I don’t ever want to see that look in his eyes again, the one I would catch sometimes at Watford, in our early years. I don’t want to see an outward show of courage masking the fear that lurks below. 

I’d die rather than hurt him.  

Our meal over we go in search of Daphne and the unruly lot where they are lounging at the pool. Lounging being purely euphemism. The twins and Magnus are splashing about in the shallows and are on the receiving end of some irate side-eye from the geriatric contingent playing bridge at the poolside tables. Except Lady Salisbury, that is. She catches my eye and winks. 

Mordelia is the only one actually lounging and has affected a look of utter boredom at the proceedings. That’s my girl. 

Simon squats down by the shallow end in an attempt to coax Magnus out of the water and ends up getting splashed for his effort.  

I’ll not complain about Simon Snow in a wet shirt that clings to his muscled torso. Even if it is my shirt.  

It raises the ire of the bridge brigade however, if the glares they are now shooting atSimon are any indication.

Even Lady Salisbury’s amusement is gone although I’m not sure I’d characterize the way she’s looking at Simon as irritation. She’s staring at him quite intently but she doesn’t look angry. More startled than anything else. 

Odd. 

My siblings eventually tire of the sun and we all make our way back to the house, Simon and I in my car, and Daphne with the whining wretches in hers. Magnus is asleep in her back seat by the time we arrive. Mordelia and the twins continue the sniping they started in the Club parking lot as we all make our way into the house. Simon, being Simon, carries Magnus up to his room for Daphne and I steer Mordelia up the stairs as well, wedging myself between her, Ophelia, and Acantha. 

“Showers for you all, you wastrels. You’re sticky and sweaty and stink to high heaven. Off with you.” I nudge Mordelia in the direction of her room and follow the twins down the hall to theirs, waving them into the bathroom when they attempt to argue with me. I wrinkle my nose. “Shove off, now. Simon and I want nothing to do with you until you’re clean.” It works. The threat of not getting time with Simon is my secret weapon. 

I leave them to squabble amongst themselves and go in search of him.

I find Simon on the terrace, curls waving in the soft breeze. It’s shadowy and cool at this time of day and Vera has left us a large pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. I sink into the chair next to him and reach for his hand. 

“The girls all sorted, yeah?”

“Sorted enough for now. They’re cranky and out of sorts but a bath should put them to rights.” I rub my thumb over his knuckles. “Thanks for taking Magnus up, love.”  
  
“Daphne looked tired. He’s getting to be a right handful.” Simon turns to look at me with a smile. “I’d loved to have seen you all rambunctious at that age, Baz.”

I roll my eyes. “I was never that boisterous.”  
  
“No, I suppose not.” He squeezes my hand and grins at me. “My Baz has always been a prat.”

He laughs as I take my hand away and cross my arms over my chest in mock indignation. 

He called me ‘ _my Baz_.’ I need a moment to collect myself from the heady sensation that runs through me at those words.

Simon bumps his leg against mine. “Let’s go for a walk. It’s too nice an afternoon to sit around.”

“Just because you’ve been sitting on your arse all day doesn’t mean the rest of us have. I played three strenuous tennis matches. You were there. I deserve a relaxing few moments, sipping lemonade in peace.”

He pours me a glass and reaches for my hand again. “Alright, have your lemonade. Then we’ll go for a walk.”

Which of course we do. I can’t say no to Simon. 

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees. The path is cool and shady and I find myself pulling Simon deeper into the woods, further from the house. I want him all to myself. 

 

**Simon**

Baz told me once with as much as I talk about cherry scones that I could probably write a sonnet about them. I don’t think I talk about them that much. 

But if I were to write a sonnet about anything it would be about Baz, at a moment like this. When the sun touches his skin, as it does right now, the pinks and golds of the late afternoon light turn his alabaster skin to a glowing rose. I think about it sometimes, think about what Baz would look like if he’d never been Turned.   
  
I don’t think I would have survived eight years—no, seven and a half years—sharing a room with him if I’d been subjected to the raw, unfiltered glory of Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. 

If he’d looked like this I don’t think I ever could have looked away. 

Not that he isn’t stunning and gorgeous and breath-taking as he is now: the paleness of his skin making his eyes so bright, the contrast of his raven hair riveting against the pallor. I’m transfixed at the sight of him.

He’d still be fit as hell, all lean muscles, powerful thighs and rippling abs.

These are the moments I wish I could write something worthy of him, when he looks like this. I can’t, of course, because I’m me.

I have to speak to him. We have to talk this through. I want more and I know he’s rattled about that. 

I know we can do it, I know we can push past that fear. We’ve pushed through all sorts of things before, when we didn’t even trust each other.

I know Baz can do it. There’s not much Baz can’t do, impeccably perfect prat that he is, when he’s determined. 

I’ve never known his fangs to pop when we’re snogging. He’s never had that happen, not even that first night in the burning woods when I caught him by surprise. Not later that night, in front of the fireplace in his room. 

Not then, not now.

Not from our early days of fumbling groping to what we have now, when his lips slide down my body and I lose myself in his touch.

He lets me do more now, more than he used to. Let’s me do to him what he does to me.

But it’s not quite enough for me anymore.

It’s good, mind you. Better than good, absolutely bloody fantastic if you ask me. 

But I want more. I want all of him. 

I want him to have all of me.

I trust Baz. More than I trust anyone, barring Penny. 

Maybe even more than Penny.

I wish he’d just trust himself. He won’t bite me. He’s daft to even think he would. He lasted all those years in our room and never bit me. There’s no reason to think he’d start now. 

He’s convinced he’ll lose control in the ‘ _throes of passion’_ or however it is he words it. Posh tosser. 

He holds back, even now. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. He lets himself go so far but then it’s as if he’s reining himself in. Never ceding that control.

I’m not like that. I’m all for reckless abandon. And I’m loud. Baz and Penny agree on that fact. 

Don’t care. What’s the point in self-control when it’s meant to feel good? It’s rubbish, holding out like that. And I mean to make him realize it.

Not just for me. For himself. He’s a better person than he gives himself credit for. I’m a better person when I’m with him.

It’s time he gave himself permission to enjoy his life and not let his stupid condition set meaningless limits on him. 

I suppose someone is finally getting around to seducing a vampire. And that someone is me.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the Depeche Mode song Just Can't Get Enough


	5. Lips Like Sugar

**Chapter 5. Lips Like Sugar (By Echo and the Bunnymen)**

**Baz**

I don’t know how long we stay out in the woods. Long enough that the shadows start to fall over us and the sun is lower in the sky when I finally pull back to take a shaky breath. 

Simon has been kissing me this entire time, with my back pressed against a tree, one of his hands in my hair and the other doing that thing I like, where he touches my stomach and then slips his fingers under my shirt. 

I’ve been snogging him right back, pulling his body snug against mine, my leg between his two, my fingers tracing the muscles of his back and up along his spine. 

He likes it when I do that.

There are times I am convinced he has no idea how attractive he is, and then there are moments, when he smiles that lazy, confident smile and lets his hands run slowly, deliberately, down my chest, that I am sure he knows exactly what he is doing to me.

It’s enthralling. 

My father’s woods are no place to be aroused however, especially not right before dinner. I reluctantly pull further away. “We should get back, love. It’ll be time to eat soon. And I did bribe the twins, to get them to clean up, with promises of your undivided attention this evening.”

“Hmm. There’s only one person who gets my undivided attention, Baz. You’re far too distracting at close range for me to be focused on anything else.”

“Some things never change, do they?” I smirk.

“Vain prat.” He reaches up to tug on a loose strand of my hair and ends up just curling it around his finger.

“That doesn’t strike me as an objection, Simon.” I tug on his hand. “Come on, let’s go. We’ll be late otherwise.”

Simon reaches out to run a hand along my hair. “Leaf,” he says, pulling one from my head. His grin widens. “Turn around. Won’t do to let the whole family know I’ve been snogging you senseless in the underbrush.” He pushes my shoulder to spin me around, brushes at my back and shoulders, then swats me on the arse. “You’ll do, I guess.”

He is going to be the end of me. This boy is going to drive me to distraction, I swear to Merlin.

All four of my siblings pounce on Simon as soon as the dishes are cleared. I follow along in their wake but am stopped by my father. “Join me in my study, Basilton?”

It’s never a question with my father. It’s a polite command. “Of course.”

Simon catches my eye and frowns but I shake my head. It’s fine. I’ve been waiting for this to happen actually.

Simon lets the children drag him off and I follow my father into his study and take my usual position in the deep armchair across from his desk. He moves to the sideboard and pours himself a drink. He tilts his head in the direction of the bottle and I nod.

He brings the whisky over to me, then surprises me by taking the chair beside me, rather than his usual seat behind his desk. This is unexpected.

“Things are good with Simon?” 

“Yes, lovely.”

“You are both staying in London for the duration of the summer?”

“Perhaps. I’d like to take him somewhere but no definite plans yet.”

“You are welcome to use any of the properties, Basilton. Just let me know.” Father takes a sip of his whisky. There must be a reason he’s brought me in here, to speak privately. There’s always a reason. 

But he takes his time getting to it tonight, making pleasant small talk about possible destinations for us to visit, asking after Bunce and her boyfriend. 

I cross my legs and take another sip of my drink. 

“Basilton, I received some paperwork from Imperial this week. You are determined in this plan?”

And there it is. I’ve been waiting for this. I told him earlier this spring that I was going to be leaving LSE at the end of term. I think it floored him. He’d finally managed to accept the fact that I’d never be attending Oxford when I shocked him with the news that I was not intending to spend any more time at LSE. 

I don’t like it there. 

I don’t like the people, I don’t like Economics, I don’t like anything about it other than the football team. And I don’t even like them that much.

Imperial College accepted me months ago. My course work from LSE will transfer. There is some additional paperwork to fill out and a meeting to schedule with my new advisor. I intend to sort that all out next week. 

“Yes. As I said last time I was here, I think Imperial is the best option.”

“You are sure of this, Basilton?”

I know why he asks. The Grimm family fortunes are tied in with farming, agriculture, sheep. An Economics degree would be eminently useful in running the family business and managing the various estates. 

Helpful but not absolutely necessary. Father has managed quite nicely without one. I remind him of that.

He shifts in his seat, eyes on me. “You were so certain, before.”

“I wasn’t, really. It seemed the simplest course of action. I didn’t foresee much for myself beyond Watford. I always assumed the World of Mages or I would go up in flames before I had a chance to properly graduate.” I sip my whisky. “I didn’t let myself think much beyond that.”

“And now?”

“Eighth year changed that. I’m not sure what the future holds but somehow I’m still here, the World of Mages is still here. I’m happier than I have been and I’m at a point where I can think about what I want.”

A soft look comes over his face. It’s not one I see often. There’s a fondness I remember in his eyes. “And what is it that you want, Basilton?”

“I want a future.” It comes out as a whisper. It’s an admission I’ve never made to him before. He now knows I had positioned myself as the Families’ champion, much to his dismay, prepared to die so that Simon Snow could live. 

That idea of needing to be a sacrifice was an illusion.  It was never necessary, I know that now.

It gives me quite a bit of freedom.

“I’ve always wanted that for you. I’ve always felt you had one, Basilton.” Those words from my father are comforting and warm. I’ve come to realize that he has always believed that. That he has been determined to give me the opportunity to live as normal a life as possible, since the day he arrived at Watford to find his wife dead and his son changed forever. 

He has never allowed himself to consider my condition a drawback or liability. It’s just part of who I am. It’s taken me a while to understand that. It’s made me appreciate his quiet support far more.

“Do you still have an interest in the family business? In taking it over someday?”

This is not so easy a subject to navigate. I’ve not come out and rejected that idea, not to him.

This kind of thing comes so easily to my Grimm relatives. My father and my uncle can talk about harvests, crop rotation and wool production avidly and endlessly. 

I take after my mother’s side of the family. 

“I don’t know.” Because I truly don’t know. Perhaps someday, if I must? But with the four other children he has now there is a far better chance one of them will carry the Grimm family attributes and be far more interested in managing the estates than I am. 

Not that I wouldn’t be good at it. I don’t do things by half measures. If that was what was required of me I would do my utmost to do the job well.

And I would succeed.

It’s that I don’t see myself as being Father’s only option. Which means I can put my efforts into doing something I love instead.

Father nods. “There is something you prefer then, that you haven’t mentioned. You said something about a different course of study, when you were here last but you didn’t elaborate.”   
  


He’s taking this far better than I expected. He was aghast when I turned down Oxford a year ago. Stunned when I said I was planning to leave LSE just a few months ago. He seems far less disconcerted by it now. 

I offer a silent thanks to my step-mother. I’ll have to have a chat with Daphne later. She is a godsend.

“Yes. There is. I think it will work out much better this way.”

“Imperial has what you need then?” Father asks. A fair question. In his mind there would be no reason to transfer if what appealed to me was available at LSE. 

“It does.”

“Are you going to continue to skirt around this issue, Basilton? Or are you going to come out and tell me why you are transferring and reveal the great shrouded mystery of your planned course of study?” He tilts his head. “I can’t think there is anything you can say that will shock me anymore, unless you are planning to enter the clergy.” He gives me a wry look and permits himself a small smile.  “Although I foresee some roadblocks if that is your aspiration.” His eyes are bright with amusement.

It hits me again, at this moment, how very dear he is to me. How comforting it is to know that he is on my side, on Simon’s side, that his support is there. Always. 

Bemused at times. Utterly baffled at others. But steadfast and solid. 

He’s happier now too. I think it’s because I am. And that makes a wave of affection for him wash over me. 

I owe him an answer to his question. I don’t think he’ll be shocked. I get the feeling he’s expecting it.

I’ve avoided spelling it out for him because in some ways my decision has the capacity to cause him unintentional pain.

The pain of a loss that still affects him, despite the contentment he has found with Daphne. 

He reaches across to pat my knee, letting his hand rest there for a moment as he meets my eyes. “Come on then. Out with it. We can’t hide in here all night. You’ll have to rescue Simon from the children sometime.” His eyes brighten again and he gives me a genuine smile.

It all does come out in a rush then. My longing to further my studies in Latin and Greek at the highest level, pursue the interest I’ve always had in Elocution, Magic Words, the power of music in Magic. 

My desire to follow in Mother’s footsteps. To take the coursework required to teach. 

To teach at Watford.

His eyes widen as I speak, and there is a shine to them that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. He coughs once and then clears his throat before speaking. His voice is rough and low. “I think that is an excellent decision, Basilton.” He blinks rapidly a few times. “I am proud of you.” He clears his throat again. “Your mother would be proud of you.” 

He pats my knee again and whispers “Good man.”

I’m blinking back the tears that come, not trusting my voice quite yet. We sit across from each other for a moment and then my father stands. I put my drink down and stand as well, extending my hand for him to shake. It’s what we do. 

It’s not what we do this time. 

He steps towards me, ignoring my outstretched hand in favor of enveloping me in an embrace. My arms go around him too and I rest my head on his shoulder, something I haven’t done in years. 

I whisper “Thank you,” as I do.

 

**Simon**

No one’s actually seducing a vampire tonight. It’s not something I can do at Baz’s parents’ house. It’s too personal. Too private.

It’ll have to wait until we’re back in London.

Even though, technically, our relationship did begin at Pitch Manor.

Well, it started in the woods really, but I didn’t ask Baz if I could be his terrible boyfriend until we were back at the house. In his room.

This is different. I wasn’t planning on seducing him that night. I just wanted to prevent him from incinerating himself.

The fact that I managed that by kissing him was pure luck and instinct. I didn’t even realize I wanted to kiss him until I was actually doing it.

My heart starts racing and the nausea hits me; remembering right now makes me think about how close we came to never having this.

I’d never have realized why I was going mental when Baz was missing. I’d never have understood my feelings for him.

And Baz would never have revealed his, the twat. He’d have gone on pretending, willing to die for the noble cause of keeping me alive, rather than telling me he loved me. 

What an absolute wanker.

Honestly it makes me physically ill to think about it. About how different things could have been. 

This is why I don’t think about things. I’m in a cold sweat right now, just imagining how awful it might have been.

Of course, Baz notices.

It’s hard for him not to.

He steps out of the bathroom to find me standing frozen by the bed, fists clenching and unclenching, practically hyperventilating at the thought.

He’s at my side in an instant. It stills floors me, how fast he can move.

“What is it? What’s wrong, Simon?” His cool fingers run down my bare forearms and catch my hands. I look up into deep gray eyes, stormy as the winter sea, concern radiating from him.

I shrug, words not coming to me. 

His fingers intertwine with mine and he drops his forehead down to touch my own. “Breathe with me now. Slow and easy.” 

I follow the pattern of his breath and bring my one hand up to touch his chest, to feel the rhythm of his heart. It’s slow and steady and it grounds me.

When my breathing slows he asks again. “What is it, love?”

I close my eyes and lean into him. “I was just thinking again, how close we came to never having this.”

His arms wrap around me and pull me close. I drop my head onto his shoulder, my arms going around his waist. 

“Hey. Stop thinking. Isn’t that what you tell me?” His voice is a whisper. I nod into his shirt. “We have this. Somehow, some way, despite all our stupid arguments and pettiness and me being an absolute tit and you being a completely oblivious nightmare, somehow we managed to find each other anyway.”

I pull him closer. 

“I have you. I’m right here. I’m not about to go anywhere and I never will. As long as you want me with you, Simon, I’m yours.”

Well, that won’t do. What the bloody hell does he mean? We’ve been through this. He knows better. Should know better by now.

I look up at him, eyebrows lowered. “What the bloody hell does that mean? ‘ _As long as I want you with me’_? I’ve told you, Baz Pitch. I’ve told you and it’s about time you bloody well start believing it. Now that I’ve got you, I’m never giving you up. Not willingly. I want you forever. Or however long that translates in vampire years.” My hands move up to his face, holding it, letting the warmth of my skin seep into him. “You have me forever, Baz. I’ll bloody well want you until the day I die. And I don’t intend to die anytime soon, you fucking wanker, so you’re stuck with me.” I pull his face to mine and crash our lips together, fast and hard and desperate.

He tightens his grip on me and pushes back just as hard. Because that’s how we are. 

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song Lips Like Sugar by Echo and the Bunnymen.


	6. Never Coming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song The Ghost of You by My Chemical Romance

 

**Baz**

Sunday morning arrives with overcast skies and the promise of rain.

Our plan is to drive back to London today but there’s no rush. Simon and I don’t have anything scheduled.

The blissful freedom of summer holidays.

My siblings are slated to attend some ghastly children’s party today. Complete with face painting, ball pools and balloon modelling. I can’t imagine a more revolting way to spend the day.

Acantha has been begging Simon to come along since breakfast. He’s been smiling and laughing and trying to avoid giving her a direct answer but I can’t help a frisson of apprehension when Ophelia joins in the wheedling.

I find it very difficult to say no to Simon. If he has a desire to explore the toxic hell-scape of an indoor children’s playcentre I would be hard-pressed to refuse.

Fiona took me to one of those loathsome PartyMan places in Wembley once, when I was seven.

Once.

I can still hear the horrible squeak of those twisting balloons.  I barely repress a shudder at the memory.

There’s a tightness to Daphne’s eyes as she attempts to put a stop to the girls’ pestering Simon. My stomach sinks. It’s evident she’s dreading this Normal undertaking.

I am indebted to her for making my father see reason regarding my transfer to Imperial. Not indebted enough, however, to put myself through an afternoon at The World of Play watching a dissolute, chavvy, middle-aged man in a clown suit try to wrangle squeaky latex balloons into misshapen farm animals.

It’s all the rage now, to have these Normal parties for the children. They have all the world of magic at their disposal and instead they want to go to these vile places; to jump about in germ-infested ball pits and eat cold pizza and stale ham rolls.

Simon gives Acantha a shake of his head. “Sounds wicked fun but I can’t today. Baz promised to take me to the Club for lunch and then we’ve got to head home.”

Lunch at the Club is news to me but I wholeheartedly support this escape plan.

I chime in. “He’s right, little puff. I promised Simon and you know how serious I am about keeping my promises.”

The incredulous look on my sister’s face is exasperating. “You can always take him to the Club, Baz.  That’s not special. But if you come with us you can get your face painted and Simon can get chicken nuggets.”

I suppress another shudder at her words.

Simon laughs. “I grew up on chicken nuggets so they don’t hold much appeal.” He bends down to meet Acantha’s eyes. “They probably won’t let a grown-up bloke like me in the ball pool and I’m sure that’ll be the best part.” He leans even closer and continues, in a poor attempt at a whisper. “You know how clowns unnerve Baz. I wouldn’t want to put him through that.”

Acantha nods sagely, then darts me a pitying look before turning her attention back to Simon. “More scared than unnerved but he doesn’t like to talk about it,” she whispers back, reaching over to pat my hand in commiseration.

“I am right here, you know.” I grumble but I endure it. If my purported fear of clowns gets me out of a trip to the World of Play, it is worth the humiliation.

We’re on the road a short while later, after taking our leave of the family and enduring a somewhat sticky embrace from Magnus.

I’m about to pull onto the motorway when Simon pipes up. “What about the Club?”

“What about it?”

“You promised me lunch there.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Did so. You told Acantha you were taking me to lunch.”

“I was simply going along with _your_ fabrication.”

“A promise is a promise.”

“I never actually promised you anything.”

“So much for being serious about keeping your word.” Simon’s grinning at me now.

He’s somehow got me twisted up with his faulty logic and as usual I can’t say no. I take the turn that leads to the Club instead of the motorway. I know how much Simon loves the food there.

And I know how much I love him.

Twenty minutes later we are seated in the Club dining room and the elated look on Simon’s face is its own reward.

It’s a sparser crowd today, the rain keeping the tennis players and pool aficionados away.

The bridge contingent is far hardier. There are a few tables of them near the back.

Simon is buttering his third roll when a few of the ladies walk by us on their way out. I nod and smile, responding to their greetings with a polite word.

Lady Salisbury stops at our table. “Left the little ones at home, Basilton?”

“They’re at some dreadful children’s playtime place today. Simon and I are heading back to London.”

I catch a flash of something in her eyes before she turns her attention to Simon. I can’t quite place it—she looked unsettled for that brief moment.

“And you must be Simon Snow,” she says, fixing her gaze on him now. “I’m Ruth Salisbury.”

He swallows his bread too quickly, coughs and then takes a rapid sip of water before rasping out a “Pleased to meet you.”

“I can’t for the life of me figure out how I never met you at one of Wellby’s Christmas parties. Weren’t you always there at the holiday?”

Simon flushes, swallows again (it’s a whole scene when he swallows) and nods. “Uh . . . ah . . I usually just stayed in the den. Didn’t really come out to meet the guests.”

I’m vexed at the thought of Simon being bundled away during social events at Wellbelove’s. I don’t have the opportunity to follow that train of thought to completion before Lady Salisbury continues. “It’s a pity you didn’t. I’m sure everyone would have loved the chance to make your acquaintance. I hope you at least managed to eat some of the food.”

“Oh, yeah, Helen always brought a tray back for me and Agatha.”

“Helen is a treasure. I really don’t know how Wellby got so lucky as to have her.” She shakes her head and then gives Simon an odd little smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Simon.” She turns to me and her smile is much broader now. “He’s a dear with the little ones, Basilton. Definitely a keeper.” She winks at me. “Hope to see you both next time you visit.”

And with that, she’s off.

Simon’s all wide-eyed and flushed. I’m sure I look almost as flustered.

Lady Salisbury is known for her sharp wit and bawdy sense of humor. She’s never been one for formalities but I hadn’t appreciated quite how forthright she is.

“Who was that again?” Simon leans across the table.

“Lady Salisbury. Ruth Salisbury. One of the older magickal families.”

Simon’s watching her leave the dining room. “She seems nice.”

“She is. Daphne plays cards with her sometimes. She’s rather feisty.”

Simon’s flush deepens. “I’ll say.”

I lean across the table. “She’s quite right though. You are a keeper.”

That only makes him blush more.

The Salisburys are an old family. Not quite as old as the Pitches or even the Grimms but they’ve been landed peerage for generations.

Father says their line is dwindling now. The son—Oliver, I think his name is—didn’t even pass the entrance examination for Watford. His magic’s so limited he’s practically a Normal. The daughter was reportedly a bit of a powerhouse but she ran away to America years ago. Ran off with some man.

Fiona says it was quite the scandal.

 

**Ruth**

It was a struggle but I managed to keep my cool, meeting the boy. I’d tossed and turned all last night thinking about him but I succeeded in schooling my features today, when I saw him stroll into the dining room with Basilton.

I couldn’t help stopping by their table. I couldn’t just walk by.

I still can’t believe Wellby never introduced me to him. All these years he was there, at the house, and I never even got a glimpse of him.

I’d have been on Wellby in a heartbeat if I had.

Would I though? If Lucy hadn’t Visited?

I keep my eyes on the road as I drive home but my thoughts are spiraling. I’d heard of the boy of course, who in the World of Mages hadn’t?

We’d all heard of Simon Snow—found as an orphan among Normals, the most powerful mage in known history, Llewellyn’s pet project, and his proclaimed Chosen One.

Seems to me that was a bit of a heavy burden to put on an eleven-year-old. The title and the sword. But David Llewellyn was always one for grand gestures and portentous pronouncements.

Went right along with that chip on his shoulder.

I’d met him a few times, when we’d visited Lucy at Watford. I could have predicted he’d be a tyrant once he got a little power in his hands. All radical ideas, revolutionary proposals and an overinflated sense of himself.

Pompous little bugger.

I don’t know how Lucy ever became friends with him.

Lucy.

I’d long ago given up on finding her. None of the leads turned up even a trace. Private investigator after private investigator promised me results but every clue turned up a dead end.

Whispers. Rumours. Nothing more than that.

But I’d never given up hope. Hope that someday she’d turn up again with her bright smile and brilliant blue eyes and fantastic stories of the adventures she’d had while she’d been away.

I’d held onto that faint wisp of optimism until the year the Veil lifted. Lucy Visiting drained any vestige of hope from me.

I know she’s dead. That’s all I know.

It’s worse knowing it. People will tell you it’s better to have closure than hold onto a vain hope. That’s bollocks. I’d rather have held onto the hope of Lucy coming back to my dying day than know with certainty that she’s gone forever.

I could always make up stories when I had hope. Of her lounging on a beach in California, hiking mountain trails in New Zealand, teaching English in a one room school house in Kerala.

The way it is now I know she’s gone forever and _I still don’t know why or how or where._ If anything, I have more questions than I did and even less chance of ever getting answers.

The Veil had only been thinned for a few weeks when she came. Just the one time.

I’d never had a Visiting before. I can’t remember anyone in my family having one. Our family may be old but we’ve always been a tame crowd. Not many scandals, no skeletons in the closet. Solid, dependable, honest, loyal.

I’d felt the cold first, woken up to the chill in the room and the silver light of the moon shining in from the window. My first thought certainly wasn’t of the Veil.

I hadn’t thought much of it at all until I heard her voice.

It had brought me bolt upright in the bed.

I’d know my Lucy’s voice anywhere. It was faint and far more melancholy than I’d ever remembered it being.

_“He doesn’t hear me. No one can hear me. The fog, it’s so thick.”_

The curtains had shifted just a bit then and I saw a shadow by the window.

“Lucy?”

The shadow had shifted into the light and I saw her. I saw my girl, pale and almost translucent, her face drawn and thin.

“Lucy!”

She’d met my eyes then and the sadness there made me weep. I’d crossed the room to her but she was already fading. She’d reached out a hand towards me but by the time I reached her there was nothing but mist.

Just the echo of her voice. _“I have so much to tell you but I can’t find my way.”_

I had spent the rest of the night shaking with tears, the years of pent-up emotion finally releasing into grief.

There was no doubt in my mind. This had been a Visiting and that meant just one thing.

That my Lucy was dead.

I’ve spoken to no one about it except Oliver. There’s no one else to tell. Oliver is all I have in this world.

His face had gone deathly pale when I told him. For all their squabbles as children they were still always devoted to one another.

Lucy had been furious when Oliver had been denied admission to Watford. She’d worked with him in the summers, trying to teach him what she’d learned at school, to give him any vestige of control over the minute amount of magic he had.

He had taken Lucy’s disappearance hard. He’d kept pushing, investigator after investigator, determined to find some clue to where she’d gone. Oliver kept my hopes up, year after year.

I had seen the devastation in his face as my words had sunk in, the Visiting having given us the answer we’d always dreaded.

Oliver thought we should try again. Try to find out what happened. Scour the decades long cold trail. See if there were any answers for us.

I couldn’t do it. What solace would answers give me now? I wanted to find her alive, not search out the manner of her death.

The day is warm but I’m chilled by the time I arrive back at the Manor.

I’m keeping this to myself this time. I need to be careful. Proceed with caution.

I’d never seen the boy before yesterday but the sight of him had rendered me speechless.

I hadn’t even noticed him at first. I’d been watching Daphne’s little ones frolic in the pool. It had irked the bridge club biddies no end, all the shouting and splashing about. Let the children have their fun, I say.

This is why I’d rather play cards with the younger set. The older ones are killjoys.

I’d spotted Basilton instantly. He’s always been such a striking young man, so much his mother’s son. Very polite and proper but with a razor-sharp wit and wry sense of humor. Every inch a Pitch, that boy is.

I’d heard he was with the Snow boy. With, as in _together_. Daphne’s mentioned the two of them time and time again and she always goes on about what a dear Simon is.

She’s got such a mothering instinct, that one. I’d be surprised if she and Malcolm don’t have more children.

I’ll admit I was curious to see what Basilton’s young man was like. So much mystery and hysteria about Simon all these years and I was finally going to lay eyes on him.

Seemed to be a charmer, based on how the children gravitated to him. It didn’t hit me until he turned around.

He looked so familiar. The squareness of his jaw, the myriad of freckles and moles that dotted his tawny skin, the set of his shoulders. Familiar and yet not so. His visage wavered in front of me, looking so like Oliver one moment and then my doubts overriding what my eyes were seeing before me the next.  His colouring was off but the rest . . .

It was unnerving. I’d left the club shortly after.

Thoughts of him had kept me wide-awake all through the night. The similarities were disconcerting.

How had I never seen this boy before?

My first thought was the possibility that Oliver had perhaps unknowingly fathered a child. He’s dated enough Normals over the years, even if he hasn’t settled down yet. Perhaps one such tryst had resulted in a child, a child that had been given up at birth. It would go a long way in explaining the magical powers Simon possessed—ones that had skipped Oliver himself but manifested in greater magnitude in his offspring.

It was a thought worth entertaining. But something about that idea didn’t feel right. I can’t believe Oliver would be cavalier enough with that concern not to take the necessary precautions. He’s not one that leaves much to chance.

He would never have countenanced a child being given up like that. If Oliver had known about a child he would have done everything in his power to foster a relationship with him, even if things had fallen through with the mother. He has known about the potential for magic in any child of his—it’s been a large part of why he has been so reluctant to marry a Normal in the first place.

The more devastating possibility is that this is somehow Lucy’s child. The confirmation that she truly had run off with a man, as I’d feared, that there truly was a child, as I’d initially suspected. Nothing had ever come of that speculation, no clues or confirmations, other than my instincts telling me otherwise.

Until now.

What was the likelihood? Circumstantial evidence at best? A boy who looks like my son. A boy who was likely born the year my daughter disappeared. A boy who is old enough to be my grandson. A boy with magical powers.

Mages don’t give up their children.

Normal couples don’t give birth to mages.

The paradox of Simon Snow makes far more sense with these scenarios: the one where the father doesn’t know he’s fathered a magickal child or the one where the mother doesn’t survive the birth of that magickal child.

It could be either one.

The question now is how do I figure it out?

I may have to speak to Oliver after all.

 


	7. The World In My Eyes

**Chapter Seven The World in My Eyes**

 

**Baz**

It’s been another perfect day.

Waking up in Simon’s arms is becoming less of a constant amazement and more of a consistent comfort.

I don’t immediately assume I’m dreaming when I wake up anymore. My dreams have become reality and it finally seems to be sinking in.

Crowley, I _am_ living a charmed life.

I sorted out my class schedule for the fall term this morning and set up an appointment with my advisor for Friday.

It was exhilarating looking over the selections. I’ve not been this eager for coursework in years.

Not that I am in any hurry for the summer to end. Not a bit. I’m savouring every minute with Simon.

It is reassuring that at least I’m not dreading the start of term.

I met Simon for lunch at the Berwick Street Market today.

I am convinced Simon has made it his personal mission to explore each and every London street market. He is delighted by the very concept of rows and rows of food kiosks.

He has his favorites now—markets, vendors, food stalls. Trust Simon to strike up friendships wherever he goes.

It’s not at all unusual for him to be offered a myriad of food samples as we walk, be the subject of shouted greetings from various vendors, and to be chatted up by fellow shoppers he’s met before. He’s in his element and I let him take the lead.

It’s good to see him so genuinely happy.

Food is definitely a comfort to Simon.

He’s taken an avid interest in cooking. Bunce may rant about Simon in the kitchen (I’ll concede he’s messy and easily distractible) but his skills are nothing to sneer at. Even I can’t summon one and sneering is second nature to me.

He’s outdone himself tonight.

Simon made a Portobello linguine that’s so delicious I couldn’t help having seconds.

Even though I am fond of Italian food, I tend to avoid pasta dishes when we’re out.  Bunce’s **_“Pearly whites”_** spell does a good job hiding my fangs but it doesn’t eliminate them, just glamours them into the semblance of regular teeth. Linguine and spaghetti tend to be a little more complicated than food that I can simply cut up, spear with a fork, and eat.

Simon makes all sorts of meals at home but he does enjoy experimenting with pasta. I’m well aware he prefers heartier meals himself so I appreciate that he does this for me.

I also appreciate Simon’s chocolate mousse. He made that tonight too.

“You’ve outdone yourself, love.” I press a kiss to Simon’s temple before I take our dishes to the sink for the washing up.

His eyes light up at my words. “Liked that one, did you?” He follows me into the kitchen and bumps my hip as he comes to stand at the sink by my side.

It takes a bit of time to bring the kitchen back to rights but once the pots and pans are put away and the counters are wiped down, Simon’s arms snake around my waist.

He doesn’t radiate a blaze of heat like he once did but his chest still warms my back as he leans into me.

“Do you need to feed, Baz?” The words are murmured into my neck and his breath heats my skin even more.

“No, I should be fine for the night.”

His lips blaze a trail along my collarbone and my heart pounds faster at his touch. “You sure? You’ve not fed since the weekend.”

He’s right, of course. Simon’s powers of observation in regard to me are as sharp as they ever were.

“I’m fine. Really.” I turn around in his arms and raise my hands to his face, my fingers brushing his cheekbones. “You’ve had enough in the fridge for me.”

He frowns, distracted from my ministrations. “I didn’t think you’d touched that yet.”

He’s caught me out. I’ve managed to keep the circumstance of my diminished blood thirst hidden from him so far (it all changed the night the Humdrum drained me) (when Simon filled that overwhelming void in me with his magic).

I don’t want to let on that it’s lessened. I know exactly what conclusion Simon will immediately jump to and I’m not having it. No power, not even the vastness of his magic, has the ability to sear the vampire taint away.

I keep telling myself that because I am not ready to contemplate the alternative.

I doubt I ever will be. I can’t comprehend that kind of power. I can’t bear to let myself think what might have happened if I hadn’t stopped him from giving me so much more of it.

Simon’s giving me a look I recognize; eyebrows lowered, jaw jutting out. He’s so fucking gorgeous when he’s about to be a pain in the arse. “You’ve got to keep yourself fed, Baz. I’ll not have you letting it go too long. You’re a fright when you do that.”

“Are you calling me a fright?”

He raises an eyebrow, the wretch. “Depends how argumentative you get about what we’re watching tonight.”

I roll my eyes. “You will be the end of me, Simon.”

“I’m trying hard not to be.” His face is serious now. “I just worry about you. I think you’re trying too hard to stretch it out.”

Damn. He _has_ noticed. “It’s fine, really. I’ll have a bit before bed, if that keeps you from fretting about it.” It’ll set his mind at ease and keep him from suspecting if I just comply.

“I think before bed is perfect.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

What blood I have in me rushes to my face. And other places. “You are a complete nightmare.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

He is going to be the death of me.

 

**Simon**

We finally settle on watching the latest season of The Great British Bake Off. I like the baking insights and Baz likes the personal drama. He tries to play it off but he gets quite invested in the contestants. It’s endearing.

If I’ve learned anything over the last eighteen months it’s that the persona Baz presents to the public bears little resemblance to who he truly is. I’d no idea he was such a sap.

I love it.

He’s so tender and sincere with his siblings. It makes my chest tight to see him curled up on Mordelia’s bed, reading aloud to her and voicing characters in a way that brings them so vividly to life.

Or how patient he is with Magnus when the little guy is crabby and overtired, Baz’s voice soothing and kind. The way he softly sings to Ophelia when she’s had a night fright and the gentle touch of his hands when he brushes the knots out of Acantha’s hair.

For all my years of stalking Baz (yes, I will finally concede I was stalking him) I failed spectacularly at discovering this side of him. Penny sniffs disdainfully when I remark on it and usually hisses an irate “ _I told you so_ ,” at me.

I beg to differ. Perhaps she never came out and said Baz was a nefarious villain (I did. Repeatedly). But she never claimed he wasn’t. Not in so many words.

She’d rolled her eyes when I’d argued the point with her not long ago. “I _told_ you, Simon. I said you were obsessed and not thinking clearly. He couldn’t have been all bad if he was tutoring Rhys in Greek.”

“When did he tutor Rhys in Greek?”

“Simon! I told you. Sixth year. When we got into the more complex translations.”

“You told me no such thing.”

“Ugh. You only heard what you wanted to hear.”

“He could have tutored me, if he was tutoring Rhys. If he truly wanted to be altruistic. I had a much harder time of it in Greek.”

“Baz tutor you? Are you joking? You were already stalking him mercilessly and shouting at him in the hallways. Always glaring at him and jutting your chin out menacingly. You’d have accused him of plotting and you know it.”

“I bloody well don’t jut my chin out menacingly.”

“You most certainly do.” She’d rolled her eyes and huffed. “Simon, you were completely unhinged when it came to Baz. He could have rescued the entire first year class from a raging inferno and you still would have found something to complain about.”

“He’d never have done that. He’d have been incinerated.”

“Just listen to yourself. You’re still doing it. I’m not going to continue this conversation. You’re completely unreasonable.”

Still Baz is kinder and far more considerate than I’d ever given him credit for and he keeps surprising me with his sensitivity.

But he’s hiding something from me. I can tell. I may not have known about all his noble tendencies but I do know when he’s being evasive. I also know just how frequently he needs to feed. I had his schedule down at Watford.

Granted he’s not subsisting on the meagre rat population of the Catacombs but still. He’d be out almost every night at school. I’ve been keeping better track since I started collecting blood from the butchers for him.

It’s certainly not daily, not now. He usually goes through one container of blood a week and he hunts maybe one night a week, two at most?

I suppose I could make the case that the blood we have at home keeps him better supplied than the Watford rats but it’s still not adding up for me.

His color is better. It’s been better for months. Longer than that even. He’s still pale, mind you, but I’ve not seen that grey shade he used to get to his skin since . . .  well, since before everything happened.

He’s not as vicious either. Not that he can’t still be that way. But I’ll concede that his lack of bitterness now may have more to do with his mood in general and the fact that his outlook isn’t as grim. But I know how Baz is when he hasn’t fed. _I know_. And he’s not had that ill-humored, sharp tone in ages.

I’ve tried to prod at him a little bit, like I did tonight. Nothing.

He did at least agree to have some blood a bit ago. I’ll not complain about that. It fits right in with my ever-evolving plan to seduce this vampire. 

I’m nestled under Baz’s arm, my head on his shoulder, my legs tucked under me, his stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He’s elegant even lounging on the sofa watching television, the wanker.

I can feel his lips brush my hair, the cool sensation of them soft and welcome. I turn my face into his neck, breathe in the scent of him. Cedar and bergamot. I press a slow kiss there, feeling his pulse point beneath my lips. It picks up speed at my touch. I keep at it, nuzzling into his neck, my hand that’s been resting on his chest sliding slowly down to skim under his shirt hem. There’s an intake of breath from Baz as my fingers travel along the planes of his abdomen, his skin cool but not cold.

My lips travel up, skimming his jawline as he turns his face in my direction, our mouths colliding; at first fast and firm then slowly softening, melting into each other as his lips open for me.

Baz leans to the side and then he slowly sinks against the arm rest, my body covering his, his legs parting to make room for me between them. My one hand continues to travel along his chest while the other reaches up to glide into the mass of his silken hair.

His hands cup my face, thumbs skimming over my cheekbones, featherlight touches that only serve to arouse me further.

It could be moments or an hour later. My face is flushed and my skin is thrumming with the nearness of him. I pull back to gaze at his face, so dear to me, so beloved, and I push a lock of his hair back.

“Hey.”

Baz gazes up at me, a soft smile on his lips. There’s a faint blush of pink staining his cheeks.

He’s beautiful.

He’s mine.

I don’t know how I got so lucky, as to have this.

It was right there, in front of me, all that time. Took the world going up in flames for me to figure it out.

I’d do it all over again, every damn thing—every cut, every bruise, every humiliation and insult, the misery with the Mage, the desolation with the Humdrum, every single moment of that—if it means I can have this at the end.

“You’re thinking too hard.” Baz’s voice is a whisper. “This doesn’t require that much thought, Simon.” His eyebrow is up.  
  
Merlin and Morgana, I love that look. I can’t help but smile down at him.

I hover there, just above him, waiting. I know Baz. I know what he’ll do.

He reaches up, finding my mouth with his. Again and again, reaching up to me. I like it when he does that. He likes knowing that I do.

We kiss until my lips feel bruised, until they tingle from the sensation of his own sliding over them, pressing into me.

I pull back again. “It’s more comfortable in my room.”

We eventually disentangle ourselves from one another and make our stumbling way down the passage to my bedroom, pausing every few steps to kiss again, for Baz to trail his lips along my jaw, to make me gasp at the touch of his hands smoothing their way up my back.

He backs me up to my bed, my legs knocking into it. My wings flare out as I fall onto it with the weight of Baz resting on me, as he shifts up onto his elbows to keep from crushing me.

It’s my turn to reach up, to push myself closer to him, to chase his lips with mine.

It’s not long before we are stretched out on our sides, Baz’s arms around me, our bodies pressed together, my leg between his.

It’s hot. I’m burning up, feeling just like I used to when my magic would pulse through me like an electrical current. I sit up to shed my t-shirt, Baz’s eyes following my every move.

I tug at the hem of his shirt. “Off.” It comes out low and raspy. He gives me a slow smile but doesn’t move.

I tug at his shirt again. “Baz.”

“Is there something you want, Simon?”

I growl in response.

“Not sure I got that.”

I growl again, sliding my hands underneath his shirt, along the taut muscles of his abdomen, sliding them around to the curve of his spine, the dip just above his waistband.

Baz laughs then and sits up, pulling his shirt off in one seamless, sensual motion that leaves me breathless.

The skin to skin contact sears me. I can’t get enough of him. My hands roam, seeking his coolness just as he melts into my warmth.

I want this. I want him. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hold onto something the way I want to keep him close to me.

My fingers skim his waistband again. “Baz.”

He moves closer, into the circle of my arms, his face buried in my neck.

“Baz.” I ask again. I’ll not make another move unless I know he’s ok with it.

He nods into my neck.

“Ok, then? I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” It’s a whisper, breath ghosting over my collarbone.

Moments later we are buried under the blanket, my pyjama bottoms kicked aside, Baz’s crumpled into a heap on the floor.

His skin is warm now, the heat of my body transferring to his under the covers that envelop us both.

I hover above him again, my face mere inches from his. 

Baz’s pupils are wide and dark in the storm-tossed grey of his eyes. His hands trace up and down my back and my legs tangle with his.

“Baz?”

He stares up at me, eyes wide. His fingers dig into my sides. “I can’t.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I do. More than anything.” Baz’s voice is so low I lean closer to catch his words.

“Then don’t stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Just let go.”

“I can’t. I can’t let go.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

He closes his eyes, lips pressed together. It hurts to see the strain in him. To see him struggle like this.

He doesn't need to. 

I trust him. 

I shift my arms then lower myself onto the mattress, on my side now, my head resting on the pillow next to his, our bodies still touching, my fingers gently tracing patterns against his skin in that way I know he likes.

I repeat my words. “Whatever you’re thinking, Baz, just stop.”

“You don’t understand. It’s all I can think about. It’s all I want. But . . . Simon . . . what if . . .”

I cut his words off. “What if you just believe in yourself?”

His eyes open, the grey of them intense and piercing. “But . . .”

“I believe in you. I believe in us. Trust me on this. If I can trust you, you can trust yourself. You’d never hurt me. You know that.” I shift my hand up to his chest, feel the fluttering of his heart. “You know it in your heart, Baz.”

His eyes close, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth. “Promise me.”

“Anything.”

“If I . . . if I do anything that alarms you, or makes you uncomfortable, anything at all, Simon. Promise me you’ll say something. Promise me you’ll stop me.”

“Hey.” I run my finger along his jaw and up to cup his face. “Look at me.”

I can see the fear, the hesitancy. I don’t want to pressure him. I don’t know how to get him past this. I stare into his eyes, trying to push all the love I have for him into my gaze, into every heartbeat, every breath, every touch.

“I’ve got you. I want you. I want every part of you. But I’ll not go one step further unless you are comfortable, Baz. Unless you trust me.”

His eyebrows draw together. “I trust you, Simon.” He leaves the other part unsaid. The part about himself.

“Then let’s do this. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing. Neither of us do. But that’s never stopped us before.” I kiss his nose. “Turned out alright in the end, didn’t it?”

That makes his lips quirk up just a bit. I kiss the corner of his mouth. I kiss his temple. I kiss his widow’s peak. I kiss his jaw, his cheek, the dimple he has on just the left side. I cover his face with kisses, featherlight.

His fingers skim across my chest. “I love you, Simon Snow.”

“I love you, Baz Pitch.”

His mouth finds mine as I move to hover over him again and I feel his breath as Baz sighs against my lips. His hands wander lower, lower, and my breath catches as his touch blazes through me, every nerve alight with the sensation of him.

 

**Baz**

I keep my eyes on Simon, on his blue eyes, those ordinary blue eyes that ground me, that calm me, that keep me from turning my thoughts away from this moment.

His touch sets my body on fire. I always said it would end in flames but I never expected it to be this, the heat of Simon, the touch of Simon, over me, around me, in me.

It’s incandescent. I feel drunk, delirious, like I did the night Simon let his magic course through me, when he made me feel as if I could touch the stars.

They are blazing all around me now.

I could float away but Simon keeps me secure, keeps me in the circle of his arms until all I can see and hear and feel is him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from the Depeche Mode song The World In My Eyes.


	8. You Make Me Feel Like I Am Whole Again

 

**Chapter Eight: You Make Me Feel Like I Am Whole Again**

**Simon**

I wake up first.

Baz is still asleep.

He’s curled into my side, face nestled into the crook of my neck, my arms around him. It’s like a circuit’s been completed. I can’t tell where I end and he begins.  
  
I’ve not felt this connected since that night in our room, when we floated among the stars.

When my magic coursed through me and effortlessly into him. It felt so right. Pulsing with every heartbeat, strong and sure, steady and powerful. I felt like I could do anything, if I was with Baz.

It makes me think about what this would have been like with my magic. What this connection, so much deeper than those few moments when I shared my magic with him, would be like with that added in. 

I shouldn’t think about it. 

I’ll not have that—what Penny’s parents have, what Penny wants to have with Micah, bonded in so many dimensions. Not ever. I’m not a mage.

But it’s alright. I can’t imagine having this with anyone but Baz, honestly. Just like the magic sharing—it was only ever meant to be with him, I think. 

Sharing it felt right with him. Making love to Baz does too.

I never thought I’d live long enough to have something like this anyway. So, I’m lucky. Luckier than I have any right to be. I’ve got him. 

He’s all I need.

 

**Baz**

I wake up to the warmth of Simon’s arms around me. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to stir yet, content to stay in the circle of his embrace.

I’d stay here forever if I could.

Once again, Simon has proven he’s got far more faith in me than I have. But I trust him and somehow that finally let me take the chance on trusting myself.

He’s warm and close and I can’t believe I let myself put this off for so long.

I know Simon’s awake. I can tell by the pattern of his breathing. I’m sure he knows I am too but he doesn’t speak. His fingers slide into my hair and gently sift through the strands. I can hear the steady beat of his heart, feel the heat of his skin, the tenderness of his touch.

In this moment I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if Simon still had magic. If what we had when he opened up his magic to me, if what we shared last night, was just a taste of the bond we could have had if he were still a mage. 

I push that thought away. 

He was the sun and I was crashing into him. A connection like that, with the emotions I’m having now? 

Crowley, I’d have been incinerated on the spot.

It’s better like this. It’s more than I ever dreamed I’d get. It’s more than I ever dared hope.

He’s Simon Snow and he is still the most courageous person I know and the most reckless. And I wouldn’t want him any other way.

My fingers trace along the moles that dot his skin, a trail that starts near his neck and travels down his chest to his abdomen and lower still. I hear the intake of his breath.

I tilt my head up and meet his eyes and can’t help smiling at him. His hair is a disheveled mess and all I want to do is sink my fingers into it, hold onto him as tightly as I can and kiss him senseless.

So I do.

It’s heat and touch, breathless kisses and wandering hands and I can’t get enough of him.

I pause for breath and he runs his hands down my spine, shivers coursing through me at his touch.

“So.” Simon’s smile is so wide it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“So.” At least my voice is steady.

“Not too bad for our first go at it, I’d say.” His grin gets impossibly wider.

I drop my forehead onto his chest, cheeks flaming at his words. I take a deep breath and raise my head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “It was adequate.”

His laugh is glorious. “Adequate, eh?” He waggles his eyebrows at me in a sinfully decadent way. “Like to see you try to do better.”

My mouth goes dry at his words.

“What do you say, Baz? Show me how it’s done, will you?” He’s smirking. This gorgeous nightmare of a boy is actually smirking at me. I’m completely undone.

I swallow thickly, my brain shutting down as my body responds to his innuendo.

I run my hand along his skin, reveling in the heated smoothness of him, until my fingers skim along his hipbone and I manage to find my voice again.

“I’m a quick study, Simon.”

My lips brush the planes of his chest and I can hear the hitch in his breath, feel the uptick of his pulse as my hands skate across his body.

I don’t know really know what I’m doing so I use his responses as my guide. I make myself stop thinking, force myself to still my whirling thoughts, let myself just follow my instincts.

Our bodies move in a harmony that’s unexpected, considering our mutual inexperience, wings and tail enhancing the sensuality of it all rather than impeding it.

It’s only later, as I’m resting in his arms again, the sweat of our exertions slowly evaporating from my skin, that I realize I’d not stopped to think about myself at all. Hadn’t let the thought of my condition, my unspoken fears, my hesitation, cloud my thoughts. I’d only thought of Simon.

I’m shaking but it’s not with cold.

Simon’s hand runs along my back, his breath stirring my hair as I bury my face in the hollow of his neck. “You cold, Baz?”

I shake my head, not daring to meet his eyes. I’m too emotional, overwrought by the magnitude of this.

I never thought I could have this. None of it. Not Simon, not his friendship, not our relationship, not his love, not this incandescent communion of body and soul.

But I can have it. The future that unfolds ahead of me is one I’ve only dreamed of. I can reach out for it with both hands and it’s right there for me to take.

It leaves me breathless.

Simon reaches down to pull the blanket up over my shoulders. He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I should have known you’d be bloody brilliant at this too, you fucking wanker.”

I laugh and look up to meet his brilliant blue eyes. “Feel free to practice as much as you need to catch up.”

He tugs on a strand of my hair.  “Don’t you think for a minute I won’t take you up on that.” He huffs out a breath and laughs again. “But not right now. You’ve worn me out.”

I rest my head back down and feel his chest rise and fall, his deep, even breaths eventually lulling me back to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lovesong by The Cure.


	9. Story of My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted a playlist for this fic. It's a mix of music that has provided inspiration for current and forthcoming chapter titles and what I listen to as I write this. It's at Spotify
> 
>  
> 
> [ **Never Tear Us Apart Playlist** ](https://open.spotify.com/user/nbzk6bsf568xtb1ixxtipa5kl/playlist/7ErOF0z9YUQ2p3GiDp7Q7Z?si=bchkl1crSWmZ250MH6XFqQ)
> 
>  
> 
> major thanks to BasicBathsheba for doing the HTML work so that I could post the link!

**Chapter Nine: Story of My Life**

**Baz**

The letter, when it arrives, looks out of place among the scatter of bills, circulars and junk mail that usually fills Simon and Bunce’s mail bin.

This particular day had started just like any of the other languid, comfortable ones before it had. Waking up to Simon in my arms, indulging in some early morning distractions, sitting together for our morning tea in the sunny kitchen.

It’s blessedly domestic and I’ve no idea what I’m going to do with myself when Bunce returns.

I’d raced home after meeting with my advisor. I suppose it’s odd that I refer to Simon’s flat as _home_ , when I’ve got my own place. Well, not actually my own flat. Although with as much as Fiona travels I may as well be living alone.

But her place doesn’t feel like home. Even after all this time.

Simon’s does. It’s got all the essentials that make it that way—the scent of food cooking, the lumpy sofa, piles of dirty clothes in the corner of the bedroom, the medicinal scent of Simon’s soap.

And Simon himself. All the details that take me back to Watford and that simultaneously reinforce where we are now.

Fiona’s place just holds the persistent odor of nicotine, greasy kebabs and Earl Grey.

I’m humming as I take the stairs up to Simon’s and my choice of song makes me realize I have truly become a cliché.

I don’t care. Fuck clichés. There was a time when the only cliché I thought I’d manage was becoming a dead vampire.

Humming Robert Smith’s lyrics on a Friday afternoon seems a far better outcome.

I burst into Simon’s flat and find him on the sofa. That’s not particularly unusual for this time of day but his expression is. I’ve not seen an approximation of his thousand-yard stare for months and it unnerves me.

“Hello, love.” I drop my bag and sink down on the sofa next to him, pressing a kiss to his temple. I find his hand and feel his fingers grip mine as I lean into him.

I know better than to push when Simon’s like this. I just hold his hand while my eyes dart around at the flat; looking at him, at the untidy stack of books nearby, the pile of mail on the table.

And that’s when I see it. The thick, cream-colored envelope with precise lettering on the front, addressed to Simon.

With a return address in Wales.

I only know one person from Wales. And that person is dead.

I squeeze Simon’s fingers and then slip my hand out of his to wrap it around him and pull him closer. He leans into me, head dropping to rest on my shoulder.

“You’ve not opened it, then?” My voice is low.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t want to do it alone. Dunno who it’s from or what it’s about.” He swallows and turns his face into my neck. “I don’t know anyone from Wales except . . .” He trails off.

“You don’t have to open it right now.” I’m dreadfully curious about the contents but it also makes me uneasy.

The fact that the return address is for a solicitor’s office does nothing to dampen my concern.

The past few months have been so much better. Uni’s taken Simon’s mind off all the misery and he found a focus in his coursework this past term that he never had at Watford. It’s been good. The Mage’s death and the whole bloody aftermath of that blasted inquiry devastated him. It just kept reopening the wounds of his loss. We’d finally moved past all that.

And now this.

Right.

He doesn’t have to open it now but I know Simon. He’ll brood on it if he doesn’t. The unknown is worse than whatever that letter holds.

“Do you want me to open it, love?”

Simon goes rigid for a moment but then he sits up, jaw jutted out and eyebrows lowered. I know that look. My heart squeezes because I know _him_. He’s never one to back down on anything. “No. I should do it.” He leans forward and picks up the letter, holding it gingerly in front of him. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

He flips it over and rips the back open, sliding a sheaf of papers out. I lean over to skim the cover letter as he reads it. His hand is shaking.

“ ‘ _Sole beneficiary_?’ What the bloody hell does that mean?” he mutters. “ _‘The bequest includes all tangible personal property, real estate and such items maintained on aforementioned property, as well as all personal effects including items until recently held at the Watford School and that were acquired by the decedent during his tenure as Headmaster at that facility.’_  Baz, what the fuck does this all mean?” He thrusts the letter at me.

I take the cover letter and scan it quickly, riffling through the document that accompanies it.

Fuck. It’s the Mage’s will.

_Fuck._

I read over the letter one more time. “He might not have gone through the paperwork to officially adopt you, Simon, but it seems the Mage made you his legal heir.” I skim the pages again. “This is a copy of the will. He’s left his entire estate to you.”

There is silence for a moment and then Simon’s head drops into his hands. “I don’t want it.”

It’s too much, too sudden, too overwhelming. It doesn’t surprise me that this is his first reaction.

I put my arms around him and his head drops onto my shoulder once more, his face buried in my neck, his words just a whisper. “I don’t want it, Baz. I don’t want anything to do with him. Not anymore.” His tail wraps around my leg and his wings tremble against my hands.

I run my hands gently up and down his back. “I’ve got you, love. We’ll sort this, never you mind. We’ll sort it.”

I order dinner. I pay the delivery man. I set out the meal, watch Simon pick at the chicken tikka on his plate, do the washing up. I choose a film to watch, endure the silence emanating from him. I know this routine. It’s like all those weekends at Bunce’s in those first months. It chills me to see how easily Simon has slipped back into that state.

It’s later, when we’re in his bedroom, that he comes alive again. Simon’s hands roam over my body, his kisses fast and firm and desperate.

“We don’t have to tonight, Simon.” I whisper it into his hair, as he reaches down to trail his lips along my neck. “It’s alright, love.”

“I want to.” His breath ghosts over my skin, his mouth sliding along my collarbone. “I want this, Baz. I don’t want to think about anything but you.” He tilts his head up to meet my eyes. “And I don’t want you thinking about it either. Not here. Not now.” His jaw clenches. “This is mine. Ours. And it’s bloody well going to stay that way.”

Simon holds himself up above me, makes me reach for his lips. I slip my fingers into his bronze curls as his wings unfurl above us. It’s warm and safe in Simon’s arms, a haven from the outside world.

“I don’t want to think, Baz.” His words hang between us. “Make me stop thinking.”

So, I do.

 

**Simon**

Morning comes and for a minute, when I first wake up, it’s like it always is. Me, on Baz’s chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart, my legs tangled up with his, the cool stretch of his body against mine.

Then I remember.

And I get angry. It thrums through me, my pulse quickening, a wave of heat washing over me. I’d be seeing everything edged in red and wavering, if I still had my magic.

But I don’t have it anymore.

Fuck him. Fuck the Mage. Fuck his lies and his prophecies and his bloody Chosen One bullshit. I close my eyes and take a deep breath but I can’t find that place, that internal calmness that’s been so much easier to channel these last few months.

I just feel the rage.

I thought it was over. The whole fucking nightmare of the inquiry, the Coven meetings, the jumble of emotions in the aftermath of it all. I thought I could put it behind me and be done. Move on with my life.

Be Simon Snow. Not the Chosen One. Not a mage. Not anyone’s fucking hero. Just me. The Simon who lives with his best friend and goes to uni and is blissfully in love with a complicated, unfairly attractive man who happens to be the gentlest, least bloodthirsty and most posh fucking vampire in existence.

That Simon. That’s the Simon I want to be.

I don’t want to be the fucking Mage’s Heir _again._ I know it’s not the same, it doesn’t have the far-reaching ramifications and portents and utter shite it did before but Merlin, I am so fucking sick of those words in relation to me.

In any bloody form. 

I had a bad feeling when I saw the envelope. Nothing to do with magic or foresight or any of that rot. Just unnerving. A tingling in my fingers as I picked the letter up, a chill down my spine when I saw that it posted from Wales, the wave of unease at the solicitor’s return address.

Nothing good could be coming out of Wales. Not for me.

I only knew one person from there. And it’s the person I would most like to forget.

I’m still trying to keep my breaths steady but the fury coursing through me is relentless.

He fucked with my life while he was alive. Can he not leave me in fucking peace now that he’s dead? Is that really too much to ask?

I can feel Baz’s breathing pattern shift and then cool fingers run through my hair. Bloody hell. I must have woken him up.

I tilt my head up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

His fingers keep carding through my hair, rasping against my scalp. It’s far more calming than any of the breathing exercises I was half-heartedly attempting moments ago.

Baz is like that. Nothing calms me the way he does. His touch, his voice, that infuriating sardonic tone he has that makes me laugh.

It didn’t always do that. He used to just infuriate me, the jammy bastard.

Not anymore. He’s a cool breeze that soothes my soul now. Not that I tell him that, mind you.

Well, I don’t tell him _often_. He’d be insufferable if I did, the tit.

“You’re a mouth-breather, Simon. It’s virtually impossible to remain asleep when you are huffing and puffing like that.” His voice is gentle, even if his words aren’t. A finger traces along my jaw. “Are you alright, love?”

I drop my head to rest on Baz’s chest again, letting my breaths slow to match his. “I’m just angry. I thought we were done with all his shite.” I fist the sheet in my hand. “I wanted to be done with him.”

His fingers keep combing through my curls. “I thought so too. But we’ll sort this. I told you.”

“Sorting it means dealing with it, Baz. I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

Baz sighs and shifts a bit. “It seems fairly clear-cut from the letter. Property, personal effects, any and all belongings. What you choose to do with that is up to you, Simon.”

“I don’t want to choose anything. Can’t I just throw the letter away and pretend I never got it?”

He laughs then, a rumble I can feel reverberating through his chest.  “You know they’ll keep sending letters, right? You’re the only heir. They made that very clear. ‘ _Sole beneficiary_.’ Trust me, love, they want this sorted as much as you do. Unfinished business on the books is no good for them. They’ll track you down, no matter what, so we may as well deal with it head-on.”

It makes me want to tear my hair out. “I don’t want to deal with it, I told you.”

Baz tugs on my hair to make me look up at him again. “I know you don’t but someone needs to. If for no other reason than to get things in order and let you move on.” His expression is grave as he continues, although his tone is almost tentative. “Do you want me to deal with it, Simon? I can speak to Father, get his input, see what I can manage without you getting dragged down by it all?”

I collapse on his chest. “Yes. _Yes_. I would be eternally grateful if you just took over the whole sodding thing and left me out of it.”

“I can’t do that, you utter pillock. It’s your inheritance, not mine. You’ll still have to make some decisions, sign papers, likely speak to the solicitors. But I will do whatever I can to minimize your involvement, if that’s truly what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Fine. I’ll call Father today, if that’s alright with you.” Baz frowns down at me. “I can talk to him about this, yes? Let him see the documents?”

“Merlin above, Baz, you can give him the bloody documents, for all I care. I trust you and I trust your father.”

He raises one eyebrow and quirks his mouth up. “It still absolutely bloody wrecks me to hear you say things like that, Simon.”

“Well, it’s true, you wanker. I trust you and Penny more than I trust anyone in this world. Your father’s one of the smartest people I know, present company excluded, and he’s far more sensible than you. I’d gladly take his advice on all this legal twaddle.”

That just makes Baz roll his eyes. “It’s not twaddle, you philistine, it’s inheritance law.”

“Call it what you like. But can we be done talking about it? At least until after you call Malcolm?”

The grin that appears on his face is wicked. “I’m going to tell him you finally called him Malcolm. He’ll be absolutely chuffed to hear it.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe I did. It feels so awkward calling him that.”

I feel the press of Baz’s lips on my forehead. “You can’t keep calling him Mr. Grimm forever, love.”

I can. I absolutely can keep calling him that.

Although I must say the thought of anyone describing Malcolm Grimm as _chuffed_ is even more awkward than me calling him by his first name.

Then I’m laughing at that thought and Baz gives me that fond smile of his that makes my heart beat faster and even though this fucking Mage business and inheritance shite is throwing me off kilter, I’ve got him and he can make anything better, just by being here with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song Story of My Life by Social Distortion


	10. We Can Dance If We Want To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the playlist created for this chapter:  **Emergency Dance Party Playlist**   
> many thanks to BasicBathsheba for converting it to a link for me!
> 
> related fic [Dance the Night Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468931/chapters/43757773) that takes place soon after this chapter and simultaneously with the next chapter of this (chapter 11) and is Dev and Niall POV's!! It's very relevant to upcoming chapter 11 of this fic so PLEASE READ IT BEFORE NEXT CHAPTER!

 

**Chapter Ten:  We Can Dance If We Want To**

**Baz**

I call Father when Simon goes out for a much-needed run.

Now that he’s not escaping magickal creatures or fighting for his life on a regular basis anymore, Simon needs some way to vent all his pent-up energy. Running does that for him. I spelled his wings and tail invisible with Bunce’s droid spell before he left, so I’m sure to have at least a half-hour to myself while he works out his frustrations on the pavement.

Maybe longer today.

My hands are trembling as I dial Father’s number. I’m putting up a good front for Simon but this revelation has shaken me to my core. I’m striving to think rationally but there is an edge of bitter anger and dread tinging my thoughts.

How is this possible? How is _Simon_ the Mage’s sole heir?

Why now?

After a prolonged and uncomfortable silence at my revelations, my father is able to provide some insight on at least one of those questions.

The Coven had contact from the Mage’s solicitors initially, not long after his death. Apparently, the Mage had failed to respond to correspondence from them (obviously hard for him to respond to mail from beyond the Veil) (they seemingly knew better than to attempt to reach him by email) (the Mage truly was technology averse).

The solicitors had finally contacted Watford and Headmistress Bunce, who sent them along to the Coven. The Coven had temporised until they completed their inquiry and then eventually dispatched the Mage’s belongings and files to Wales, after what my father describes as an intense and laborious magickal forensic evaluation of the items.

I don’t know what that means.

“It means the books, files, computers, all went through a thorough scan for hexes, charms, magickal residue, before being shipped off. Nothing concerning turned up, according to Wellbelove,” my father tells me.

“Who checked them?” This is relevant. Not all mages are cognizant of the more dubious magic that exists. I wouldn’t put it past the Mage to have indulged in banned spells and all manner of nefarious activities.

My father sighs. “Mitali Bunce did the first sweep, when she took over his office. Martin had a chance to look them over as well, along with Cressida Irons, and then Aloysius Gore did the final evaluation.”

Cressida Irons and Aloysius Gore. They certainly pulled in the experts. Gore is a world authority on dark magic, while Irons has published most of the current research on hexes and banned spells. My grip on my mobile loosens slightly at his words.

“Basilton, I’d like to examine the documents in question. If Simon is agreeable that is.”

“He’s more than agreeable. He’d probably prefer you took the whole bloody mess off his hands.” Honestly, I would too. But I made Simon a promise to sort this and I intend to keep it. “Simon wants nothing to do with this.” I pause and then continue. “It’s shaken him up a bit.”

Father sighs again. “I am sure it has. Understandably. I don’t know what game Llewellyn was playing, but he has certainly interfered enough in the boy’s life. I hope, if nothing else, sorting this puts the matter to rest once and for all.”

“I don’t understand how Simon is his sole heir. Surely, the Mage had other family? Simon isn’t even related to him. It makes no sense.”

“I’m rather certain that’s why this letter to Simon has surfaced now. The solicitors have likely chased every other eventuality. I’ll understand it better once I see the documents.”

“We can come anytime.”

“If you come tomorrow, I can look them over with you both and then call for reinforcement if needed on Monday. Will that work? It won’t disrupt your weekend plans to come to the lodge?”

“Any weekend plans have already been derailed by this mess.” I pause and wonder if I can confide this to my father. Bunce isn’t here and there is no one else who really knows what Simon was like last spring. Other than Dr. Wellbelove and I don’t intend to call him. “He’s regressed a bit, Father.”

I hear his intake of breath. “How much is a bit, Basilton?”

“Not as bad as initially. But he’s back to blinking out in the middle of a conversation. And staring at nothing. Not as pronounced as it was, but he hasn’t been like this for months.”

“Understood. Do you need to call Wellbelove or that American counsellor?”

I shake my head and then mentally upbraid myself for it. Father can’t see me. “No. Not yet, at least.”

“Come to the lodge tomorrow. Daphne and the children will find ways to distract Simon. You and I can sort through the papers.” I can hear tapping through the line. It’s a tell that my father is more agitated than he is letting on, if he’s drumming his fingers on his desk. “I may want a solicitor to review the documents.”

“I don’t think Simon would have any objection. Who are you thinking of consulting?” My father has a few solicitors—personal and business.

“Oliver Salisbury.”

“Oliver Salisbury?” That’s not a name I expected to hear.

“He’s very well versed in Normal law, particularly inheritance. He bridges the gap between Normal and Magickal law better than anyone I know. I think his input would be beneficial.”

Oliver Salisbury. Lady Salisbury’s son. I had no idea he was a solicitor.

“Whatever you think best. I’ll speak to Simon and let you know when to expect us.”

“Anytime is fine, Basilton.” Father pauses before continuing. His voice is softer when he resumes speaking. “Give Simon my best. Tell him we’ll get this sorted.”

I end up tidying Simon’s kitchen while I wait for him to return. I’ve got too much nervous energy myself today. The dishes are in the rack, the floor is swept, and I’ve reorganized Bunce’s spice rack by the time Simon returns.

He’s a glorious mess. Hair tousled and sweat-slicked, face red with exertion, heat radiating from him like it used to at Watford.

“You have a good run, love?”

Simon nods. “I went farther today but I don’t think it did the trick. I still feel like a live wire. Like my skin’s too tight.”

I sweep the hair off his forehead, ignoring the slick sensation of it, and place a kiss on his heated temple. “Go take a shower and cool off.”

“Did you speak to your father?”

Simon’s not letting me divert him with the shower. “Yes. Father said to come anytime. He’ll look at the documents and let us know what he thinks.” I put my hand on his chest, feeling the humid moisture of his drenched t-shirt, the warmth of his skin beneath it, the steady beat of his heart. “We can go whenever you want. Today, tonight, tomorrow. Your call.”

His brow furrows in thought and I reach up with my other hand to smooth the crease from his forehead. “You don’t have to decide right this minute. Go take a shower and we’ll figure out the logistics when you’re done. Off with you. You’re a disgusting mess.” I soften my words with a brush of my lips to his and Simon grasps my shoulders and pulls me closer to deepen the kiss.

I inhale the scent of him—not the familiar, fiery, burnt smell he used to have, but the green, sharp scent he has now. Fresh like new-mown grass, even with the muskiness of his sweat overlaying it. Clean and crisp. As intoxicating as ever, even without the tinge of magic.

He pulls away and scrunches his nose at me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to slime you. I’m all grotty.”

I lean in and kiss his nose. “I should be used to it by now.”

I get a snort in answer, then Simon heads to the shower to clean up.

It’s plain to see he’s still on edge. Understandably so. I don’t think the run did as much for his agitation as I’d hoped. 

I sink down onto the sofa and flick through my mobile.

Should I?

I wonder.

I swipe through my playlists. I know it’s still on here. It’s the one thing that’s remained a constant on my mobile, through every upgrade and iteration.

The Emergency Dance Party playlist.

Of course, it was Fiona’s idea, all those years ago. A way to release energy and tension and forget about whatever was troubling me at the time. She filled a playlist with upbeat dance music and when those times hit me—at Pitch Manor or when I’d visit her at her flat in London—she’d turn the music up and we’d dance until we’d drop.

She made me do it last year. After everything. She’d come to Watford on a Friday afternoon and whisked me away to London, completely ignoring my protests and complaints. I told her I needed to be with Simon, that I had no time for gallivanting about with her.

_“No way, boyo. Not this weekend. This weekend you’re with me. Enough of this moping around. We’re going to watch stupid rom-coms and eat crisps and ice cream on the sofa, and dance the night away.”_

And that’s what we did.

It was just what I needed. Fiona has a way of shaking me up and unsettling me. It drives me mad at the time but I always feel better after.

I’ve not told anyone about the playlist. Even Dev and Niall don’t know about it and they’ve known me forever.

But I think Fiona’s playlist might be exactly what Simon needs right now.

He comes out of the shower, hair still damp and curls going every which way. He sinks down onto the sofa next to me but doesn’t relax. His leg is jiggling, and he keeps fidgeting at my side.

Right. Emergency Dance Party it is.

I pair my mobile with the stereo and stand up.

“What’re you doing?” Simon sits forward to watch me move the coffee table to the far side of the room.

“Making some room.”

“Room for what?”

“You’ll see.”

I click the ‘play’ button and the opening strains of Dexy’s Midnight Runners ‘ _Come on, Eileen’_ surge out of the speakers.

“What’re you doing?” Simon repeats.

I hold out my hand to him. “Get up.”

He frowns and stays seated.

“Get up. We interrupt this interval of moping for an Emergency Dance Party.”

His eyebrows go up and his eyes widen. “A what?”

“Emergency Dance Party. Get up. I’m not about to do a Billy Idol and just dance with myself.” I grab his hands and pull him to a stand.

He gapes at me, mouth open, eyes wide, and I can’t help but laugh at his expression. “Simon. For Crowley’s sake. I’m asking you to dance with me.”

He continues to gawk at me so I shake my head and start to dance along to the music. It’s a hodge-podge of 70s and 80s music, but the overarching theme of it all is a strong beat and a danceable melody.

I reach for his hand and pull him to the middle of the room. “Anyone can dance to this, Simon. Just move your feet and let go.”

And astoundingly, he does. It’s tentative and off-beat, but he’s shuffling his feet and swaying a bit.

I’ve only properly danced with Simon once. At the leavers ball. He was atrocious. He can’t follow a lead to save his life and he’s utterly unable to stay on beat. It was simultaneously the most excruciating and endearing dance of my life.

I love to dance. Few people know this. I’ve never advertised the fact, for obvious reasons. It would have undermined my carefully cultivated persona.

Dev, Niall, and I would head to London occasionally, to go dancing in the summers and on some weekends seventh year. There are very few good all-ages clubs in London, but quite a few fantastic over-19 ones. Carefully obtained alternative identification made those accessible to us.

Fiona has connections. You learn not to ask too many questions.

‘ _Come on Eileen’_ fades into Depeche Modes’ ‘ _Just Can’t Get Enough’_ and I let myself succumb to the music. I can see Simon valiantly trying to keep pace with me, flushed and glowing, a fierce look of concentration on his face.

Crowley, he is so fucking magnificent. He catches my eyes and gives me a shrug. I nod my head to the beat. “That’s it. Just fucking let go, Simon. Let it all go.”

The music shifts again. I throw my head back and close my eyes and let the music take me.

 

**Simon**

I try to do what Baz says at first. Dance along to the music. It’s a great playlist. I can’t believe I’ve never found this on Baz’s phone before. I had no idea he liked ABBA.

Or Def Leppard.

Those thoughts flit through my brain, which has been totally derailed by the sight in front of me.

The music continues. I know Baz said it’s a dance mix and that I’m supposed to be dancing, but how can I do that? How can I do anything but stare at him?

He’s stunning. He’s stunning all the time, the prat, but this . . . I’ve never seen Baz like this. I’ve never seen him _move_ like this.

He’s got his head thrown back, eyes closed, the long line of his neck exposed, body moving sinuously to the music, shoulders shifting, hips swaying.

Baz said this should help relieve some of my pent-up tension. It’s doing fuck-all for my shoulders and everything to create tension somewhere else.

Mainly in my pants.

Baz is breathtaking and all I can think is how fucking fortunate I am that I get to see this side of him.

_Fuck._

I’ve been trying to shuffle around, but it’s awkward. I can’t dance. I’m shit at it. Ask Baz. He had to deal with my two sodding left feet at the leavers ball. The wings and tail make matters even worse.

But Baz. Baz moves like the music was made for him. I’ve watched him when he plays his violin. Music does this to Baz. He immerses himself in it but I’ve never seen him give himself over so completely.

A memory comes back to me with a crystal-clear clarity.

_“What are you going to tell her? She’ll want to know why you drove up to London. Some reason other than asking about Nicodemus.”_

_“I’ll tell Fiona I’m going dancing.”_

_“And she’ll believe that?”_

_Baz had leveled me with a glare. “Of course, she’ll believe that.”_

_“That something you do then? Dance?” I couldn’t wrap my mind around that at all._

_He had raised one eyebrow, the tit. “I do a lot of things, Snow.”_

Baz. Dancing. I’d wondered back then if it was some ballroom dance club he’d go to. Full of posh ponces dancing with socialites _._

I don’t think it was a ballroom dance club.

Fuck.

It’s obvious to me now that Baz likes to dance. Loves it, if this is any indication. He’s never mentioned it, never said a word about it, not once since we’ve been together.

An image of Baz in a club, music throbbing and pulsating around him, the dim lights highlighting his features, his body swaying to the pounding beat, runs through my mind.

I’d like to see that.

I am seeing that.

“You’re supposed to be dancing, Simon. That’s the point of this. Pent-up energy, remember.” Baz’s eyes are open now but he’s still moving to the music.

It’s distracting as hell.

Who the fuck is this singing? It’s some deep-voiced, growly singer and the words and music aren’t helping with my situation. At all.

This playlist is not what I expected from Fiona and Baz. It’s not dark enough. There hasn’t even been one Smiths song.

I suppose it’s not easy to dance to the Smiths.

He’s closer to me now, dancing right in front of me.

“Come on, Simon. It’s just us. Loosen up.”

“You know I can’t dance, Baz.” Merlin, this singer is going to drive me mad. It’s like lust incarnate, this song.

So is Baz.

“Doesn’t matter. Just let go. Move to the beat and don’t worry about it. Crowley, just do what I do.”

There is absolutely no chance I could ever move my hips that way. None.

He takes my hand in his, cool fingers lacing through mine. “Come on, do what I do.”

Baz pulls me closer and I try to shuffle my feet.

“Who is this? This singer?”

“You like it?”

“He should be fucking illegal.”

Baz laughs. “It’s Terence Trent D’Arby. _Wishing Well.”_

“Well, I know what I’d wish for.”

Baz moves even closer. We’re practically grinding at this point. I close my eyes and let myself focus just on him, the feel of him against my body, the way he moves, the scent of him.

“And what would that be, Simon?” His words are a breath against my lips.

“You, you fucking sexy bastard. Always you.”

Baz huffs a laugh. “I think you’re getting the hang of this finally.” His hands come to rest on my hips and we’re moving together, to the beat. Chest to chest, my leg between his, every nerve alight.

“I could get used to this.” His eyebrow goes up at my words.

“Used to what?”

“To this. You . . . you dancing like this.”

“Hmm. I could get used to it too, I suppose.”

“I never knew you liked to dance, Baz. You’ve never said a thing about it.”

“Didn’t seem to come up.”

The song ends and another comes on, faster and with a pounding beat that I feel in my chest. Baz throws his head back again and I can’t help but lean in to run my lips along his collarbone, up to his jaw and to that place behind his ear that makes him shiver.

He grinds into me and grins. “You’re defiling my childhood playlist, Simon.”

I pull back. “Sorry.”

“Shut up, you nightmare. It’s having the intended effect. Now come here and kiss me again.” He leans down and his lips find mine. My eyes close and it all drifts away—the Mage, the will, the questions fade into nothingness.

All I feel is Baz. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song Safety Dance by Men Without Hats.


	11. You Wrap Me Up In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long hiatus on this fic! I really wanted to finish Can't Find My Way Home and I was finding that writing these two at the same time was too distracting as far as the storylines, so I put this one on hold for a bit. Then real life and some personal issues intervened. But now I'm back to this story and hope it hasn't been too long for all of you who have followed this fic! 
> 
> I also wrote an in-between fic, that is related to this one, called [Dance The Night Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468931/chapters/43757773) It fits in between this chapter and the next one. 
> 
> thanks so much for your patience. I'm excited to be back to this story--I have a lot planned for Simon and Baz!

**Chapter 11**

**Baz**

It’s evening by the time we get on the road. Simon had responded quite suitably to the diversion of my playlist (and the subsequent _distraction_ by me) (I don’t know who distracts who anymore) but his anxiety was ramping up again by dinnertime, this afternoon’s erotic gropefest notwithstanding. 

I know he won’t settle until we get Father’s take on this. There was no point in waiting until tomorrow, so we packed our bags and hoofed it to the lodge after we ate.

The fact that Simon didn’t finish his chicken tikka is a cause for concern.

I’m sure there’s something in the fridge at the lodge to tempt him. I should have texted Daphne about it.

But knowing my step-mother, she’s sure to be one step ahead of us. The kitchen is always well supplied with treats when she knows Simon is due for a visit. I’m sure today is no exception.

It’s well past dark by the time we pull in and Magnus will likely already be in bed.

Which is unfortunate. He always manages to bring a smile to Simon’s face.

I’m startled to see his pyjama-clad form rush at me when Simon and I come in the front door.

The fact that Magnus is awake, and that the entire horde of wretches otherwise known as my siblings are lurking by the door awaiting our arrival, is signal enough that Father has taken my worries about Simon to heart.

Occupying Simon’s attention is obviously a more pressing issue than keeping to a set bedtime.

My siblings swarm us as we walk in, as if we weren’t here just last weekend.  
  
“Simon!” Acantha has latched onto Simon’s arm and is pulling him in the direction of the sitting room. “I’ve got a new game for us to play.”

“You promised you’d play a game with me this time, Simon,” Ophelia’s got him by the other arm and she’s tugging at him too.

Magnus, as usual, is wrapped around my leg grinning up at me. I reach down for him. “Come here, you fright.” I end up spinning around with him in my arms, which sets him to giggling.

Mordelia rolls her eyes at the sight of us, but there’s a hint of a smirk on her face.

Father joins us in the foyer, followed by Daphne. She shakes her head. “And here I thought I’d managed to settle them down for the night with promises of seeing you in the morning, Basil.”

“Seems we’ve the worst timing then.” Magnus clutches at my neck as we go around one more time.

Father’s lips twitch and his eyebrow goes up as he catches my eye. I nod back at him, grateful for my siblings’ antics. Simon’s face is bright and he’s already laughing with the girls as they drag him off.

“Magnus, don’t choke poor Baz.” Daphne reaches for my brother but he only clings closer, his chubby cheek pressed against mine.

“My Baz.”

Mordelia snorts. “I’m sure Simon might have something to say about that.”

Magnus frowns and repeats himself. “My Baz.” He scrunches his face at her. “My Simon.”

She’s almost got the arched eyebrow move of mine down. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re my Magnus, you wretched little sprite.” I can’t help but kiss his nose. He’s unreasonably adorable and it absolutely makes me melt every time he does this sort of thing.

“Story, Baz?”

“Yes, little puff, I’ll tell you a bedtime story. Are you ready to go on up then?”

He shakes his head. “No, want Simon too.”

“You are incorrigible. How about I make you a deal? I’ll let you sit with Simon for a bit and then I’ll take you up to bed for a story. That way you get both of us, yes?”

 He nods eagerly and I go in search of Simon and the girls.  
  
They’ve already roped him in to some new board game and he’s sporting that hopelessly befuddled expression that I adore. I deposit Magnus in his lap and press a kiss to Simon’s temple. “You game to handle these barbarians for a bit, love?”

His face is flushed, eyes bright. “I can handle this lot, Baz.” His grin deepens, setting off that dimple in his cheek. “Better than you, I’d say.”

“Dream on, you wanker.” I can’t help leaning down to kiss that dimple. Simon turns his head just enough to brush my lips and Mordelia starts making retching noises from the doorway. 

Simon tilts his head at her. “She’s as bad as Penny.”

“At least she doesn’t spell things. Yet.”

Mordelia pulls up a chair and sits across from Simon, eyes alight with curiosity. “What did she do to you this time?”

I leave Simon stuttering an answer and go in search of my father.

 

**Simon**

The girls are soundly thrashing me in this game, which is nothing new. I barely keep up with them on good days, and today’s not a particularly good one. I know Baz went off to talk to his father, but I can barely keep myself from tearing off in search of them, even though the last thing I actually want to do is talk about that bloody letter.

Magnus is in a snuggly mood, so I try to concentrate on the weight of him on my knee, the dizzying pattern of moves Ophelia is making on this game board, and the patient directions Acantha is giving me, to try to keep myself from coming apart.

My skin feels too tight, like I’m about to burst out of it, splitting the seams of my clothing like a scaled down version of the Incredible Hulk. I’ve completely given up on my tail—it’s lashing about furiously. The knee not occupied by a squirming toddler is continuously jiggling. I’m surprised the girls haven’t complained about me rattling the table.

I glance up to find their pale faces observing me. Three sets of wide brown eyes stare back at me unblinkingly. “Is it my turn then?”

Acantha shakes her head. Mordelia tilts her head and frowns. Ophelia puts a hand on mine and pats me gently. “It’s alright, Simon. This game isn’t as good as we thought it was.” She stands up and tugs my sleeve. “Let’s see if there’s something good to watch on the telly.”  
  
Acantha pops up. “Ooh, Simon. There must be a cooking show to watch.”

Mordelia reaches her arms out for Magnus but he shakes his head and glares at her as he clutches my shirt. “Simon.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms.

I shift him as I stand up, resting his weight on one hip. “You’re getting too big for all this carting around, my little man.”

“Am not.”

They’re being kind, the lot of them.

I trail after them as we make our way to the den. It’s right embarrassing to think back on it all, how I regarded them that first Christmas. I think even Magnus intimidated me.

I’m an idiot, that’s for sure, to have ever been so suspicious and judgmental of them all. To have ever believed all the rot the Mage told me about them.

I can feel myself getting angry again, feel the heat wash over my skin. I take a few deep breaths and Magnus mimics me, holding his breath and then letting it out with a big whoosh and a giggle.

I follow his lead, taking big breaths in and huffing them out with a big burst of air. It makes us both laugh, and I have to take a second to bury my face in his messy hair so he doesn’t see the emotion coming over me.

They’re more than Baz’s siblings.

More than friends.

They’re my family and they’re on my side.

 

**Baz**

Father and I retreat to his study, the solicitor’s letter clutched in my hand.

I hand it over before taking a seat in one of the armchairs in front of Father’s desk. He studies it for a moment, then folds it up and puts it down.

“A drink, Basilton?”

“Yes, please.”

Father hands me a generous pour of whiskey before he sinks down into the chair next to me, the letter in his hand again.

“It seems straightforward enough.”

“You don’t find it odd?”

He takes a slow, thoughtful sip of his drink before speaking. I’ve practically gulped half of mine down already.

“The stipulations seem direct enough. The only odd part is that Simon is the sole heir. I’m sure I remember someone mentioning Llewellyn had family in Wales.” Father takes another sip of his whiskey. “He did name Simon as his Heir to get him into Watford and authorize him to be entered into the book of Mages, but there was no legal adoption or paperwork. That was made clear at the inquiry, as you recall. This isn’t quite so odd when you think of it that way, Baz—everyone has thought of him as the Mage’s Heir for years.”

“But why now? Why didn’t we know of this during the inquiry? Why didn’t he ever say anything to Simon?” My words tumble out. I’m angry. Simon’s had time to sort his emotions out, with the help of his psychologist and, to be honest, with Bunce and me.

This is a bolt out of the blue, one that has sent him spiraling back to the state he was in all those months ago. It would have been a blow at any time, to have his ties to the Mage so boldly stated yet again, but the timing now is unfortunate. He’s just gotten back to truly being _Simon_ again.

Father frowns. “I expect it’s been detail work by the legal firm. Making sure this will is valid, that there are no extenuating circumstances or unknown family that might make trouble for Simon in the long-term.” He puts his glass down to scan the letter again, the only sign of his agitation his fingers tapping a staccato beat on the arm of his chair.

It’s obvious to me that Father likes this development as little as I do. He’s not stating that fact; instead he’s being his cool and rational self, trying to use logic and reason to settle me down so I can settle Simon down in turn. But the undercurrent of concern is palpable.

“Something is bothering you about this, Father. Something’s not adding up.”

He sighs as he folds the letter. “I’m a bit unsettled by the timing, as you say. I can think of valid reasons for that though, reasons that make sense. I think my concern right now is more for how this is affecting Simon.” He meets my eyes. “And you.”

I huff. “I’m fine. It’s Simon I’m worried about. The last thing he needs is to be dragged back into the Mage’s affairs.” I down the rest of my whiskey. “He spent his entire life swallowed up by that bastard’s machinations. I can’t help but be suspicious of this.”

“I’m not going to argue with that. There is much that we don’t know about the Mage. The Coven has ferreted out quite a few unsavory things. I expect more will surface with time.” He reaches across to pat my arm. “Perhaps this will bring some form of closure to Simon?”

“Not if it takes up his time and mental energy.”

“This may well be the last vestige of his ties to the man. A way to end the relationship for good and put it all behind him.”

“He’s done that already, in his head. This is just stirring up bad memories and painful emotions. He doesn’t want anything from the Mage. That’s the first thing he said. He doesn’t want to take anything, know anything. He wants to pretend this letter never arrived and just stop thinking about it.”

“You know as well as I do that he can’t do that.”

“I do know, but I can’t help but wish we could tell them to sod off. Sell off whatever the Mage left him and give the proceeds to charity. That’s closure.” It’s what Simon had said that first day.

Father leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers together. “Have you given any thought to the fact that there may be documentation or information regarding Simon’s background?”

I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this. I’ve been so consumed with fury at the disruption to Simon’s well-being that this point has completely escaped me. I’m an utter berk.

“Do you truly think that’s possible, Father?”

“There’s mention of documents, personal effects. There could be some clues there.”

“But I thought the Coven went through those papers. You told me Cressida and Aloysius had gone over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Literally.”

Father waves a hand. “They went through what they had, looking for nefarious plots, clues regarding his ties to the dark creatures, forbidden spells, and such. I doubt they were overly concerned about any correspondence with care homes or records of Simon’s pre-Watford years.”

I sit up straighter. This is a revelation. “Was there correspondence with care homes?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t think the papers from his office at Watford will shed much light. David Llewellyn was a secretive, sly, distrustful man. But who knows what he kept stowed away at his home, far from the magickal world? We know nothing of his _discovery_ of Simon, other than what he chose to share.”

I will personally sift through any and all of the Mage’s personal effects if they can possibly shed light on Simon’s origins. On the chance that I could find anything that would give him the opportunity to obtain evidence of his real family. To feel like he belonged to someone, somewhere.

I know he belongs to me. And to Penny. And to my family, if I’m being honest.

But this has always been an unfilled void in him, deep and agonizing, this mystery of his parentage, the very details of how he ended up in care. A gnawing emptiness that even the vastness of my love for him can’t fill.

Wouldn’t he be better off knowing _something_?

My father is still talking. “Who knows what exists from his time before becoming the Mage, before his years as headmaster? Could it shed light on Simon’s past? Perhaps.” Father gives me a piercing look. “But I do think it would be folly to pass up the opportunity to find out. And not just for Simon.”

Father’s words chill me. The time before the Mage became headmaster is the time when my mother was still alive. The time he was plotting with the vampires.

Plotting her demise.

If there is any chance of Simon finding out about his family he has to take possession of this bequest.

If there is any chance of finding out more about the Mage’s vendetta against my mother I will make sure Simon takes possession of every scrap of paper, every grocery list, every item that belonged to that bastard.

It’s personal. It always has been.

But even more so now.

My hands twist together to keep from shaking. My father is still drumming his fingers on the armrest. I swallow. “So what do you suggest?”

He’s silent for a long moment. “I suggest speaking to Oliver Salisbury. This is his area of expertise and I trust his opinion. He’ll know if this paperwork seems in order and he may be able to give some insight on this solicitor, as well as advise us on questions to ask. I’ll call him in the morning.” Father’s brow creases fleetingly and then he continues speaking. “I suppose I should put a call in to Wellbelove as well. I’d not put it past the Coven to have some renewed curiosity in regard to those personal effects. I think it would be in our best interests to be prepared for them to be involved.” His hands squeeze the armrests, knuckles white against the burgundy leather. “The Mage damaged our trust in each other. He put our world on the brink of destruction. We can’t let that happen again. We can leave no stone unturned as to how we came so close to such devastation.”

My mind wanders back to those days— the Old Families’secret meetings, the Mage’s raids, the certainty that there would be no escape for either of us in the standoff that loomed ahead.

 “Are you coming along, Baz?” Father is standing. “It’s time to rescue Simon from the children and long past time they were in bed.”

“Yes, right, of course.” I rise to my feet and follow him out of the study, down the long corridor that leads to the den.

I trail a few steps behind him, needing these moments to sort my thoughts. Father has given me much to think on, most of which I am not prepared to share with Simon—not until I know more.

I can’t let him get his hopes up, as far as his family goes. We may gain no insight at all.

I dare not mention anything about my mother either. Simon already harbors an unwarranted and enduring guilt about his mentor being the cause of my mother’s death. There is no way in hell I’m going to stoke the embers of that particular fire.

We find Simon and the children in the den, engrossed in an episode of _The Great British Bake Off._

Of course that’s what they’re watching. Mordelia knows how much Simon loves cooking shows, and the rest of them are only too happy to snuggle up to him and listen to him emote about food.

Magnus is asleep in Simon’s arms. Acantha and Ophelia bracket Simon like bookends.

It takes an instant for Mordelia to summon up an appropriately bored expression, but she’s not quick enough for me. She’s as enthralled as Simon with these shows. Vera’s told me how she likes to mess about in the kitchen. 

I lean over the back of the sofa, ruffling Simon’s bronze curls and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He turns his head to smile up at me. He looks tired.

Father clears his throat. “Come along then, Simon and Baz’s late arrival has let you all weasel out of bedtime for long enough.”

There is a chorus of groans from my sisters as Magnus wriggles around and opens his eyes to pout at Father. Daphne materializes at my Father’s side and fixes the lot of them with a stern look. “Up, all of you. Off to bed, now. You’ve worn poor Simon out.”

They mutter and grumble, dragging their feet, with lingering hugs for both Simon and myself. Daphne keeps shooing them down the hall and the girls finally shove off, shoulders down, the picture of abject dejection.

Magnus maintains a death grip on Simon, even when we’ve reached his bedroom door, shifting away when Daphne tries to detach him. “Baz promised. Story.” He glares at me, as if daring me to deny it.

Blast the devious little sprite. He’s got me. I did promise.

I tell Daphne as much and endure one of my step-mother’s infrequent eye-rolls. “They’ve got your number, I’ll have you know, Basil. Wrapped around Magnus’ little finger, that’s what you are.” She shakes her head at me as I take him from Simon, but there’s an indulgent, fond look in her eye as she squeezes my arm and then goes up on tiptoe to give me a quick kiss. “You’re such a dear.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. My indulgence of my siblings is a continuous blow to my urbane and aloof persona. Truly it should be an absolute humiliation for me, but I can’t help doting on the little beasts.

Magnus snuggles into my shoulder, then pops his head up to peer at Simon. “Simon too.”

For Crowley’s sake. “What? I told you I’d tell you a story, you greedy little goblin. You’re not getting one from Simon also.”

“Want Simon too.” He tugs on a strand of my hair. “You promised.”

“I promised no such thing,” I start, but Simon links his arm with mine and leans in.

“I’ll just come along and make sure he’s telling it right, yeah?”

Magnus nods at his words and I’m stuck with the both of them it seems.

Simon takes the armchair and I perch on Magnus’ bed, tucking him in nice and snug before starting the story. He’s inordinately fond of the one about the dragon, the Lady-bird one, from our eighth year. He’s had us both tell it to him countless times and he loves to fuss when we don’t recite it quite the same way.

Which is every time, as Simon can never get the story right.

It’s not even Magnus interrupting me this time, it’s Simon. I shoot him a quelling look but he ignores me, the ridiculous muppet. “You forgot that one bit, Baz.”

“What bit?”

“The moat bit.”

“I just told him that part. Weren’t you listening? I said I’d climbed up to the ramparts to shout at you and then had to float over the moat to reach you, endangering my very life, because you were being a blustering, sodding fool, trying to slice the dragon into bits for no good reason.”

Simon shakes his head. “Not that bit, you prat. You forgot to mention the spell. **_‘Float like a butterfly.’_** And how you just drifted out over the moat, prettiest thing I’d ever seen.” He closes his eyes and leans back in the chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, not even waiting to see how his words have brought all the blood in me rushing to my cheeks.

 

**Simon**

It’s a good thing Magnus is tired because Baz is totally bollocksing up the narrative tonight. His face is pink, all the way up to his ears, and he’s tearing through the story faster than usual.

Magnus is asleep before we even reach the part where the dragon finally flies away. Baz leaps off the bed, dims the light, then yanks on my arm to get me up. I stifle a yelp as he drags me out of Magnus’s room, then down the corridor and up the stairs to his own room.

Our room, I suppose I could call it, after all this time.

The door slams shut behind us and then he’s pressing me up against it, hands roaming over my chest, sliding up into my hair, tightening his grip on my curls when his lips cover mine. “You gorgeous nightmare, you.”

He’s murmuring all sorts of endearments into my skin, my lips, my hair, the ones that combine outrageous insults with overtly sensual commentary.  
  
In other words, my favourite kind.

I pull him closer, his body pressed up into me, my fingers gripping onto his hip bones. His leg slides between my own, the friction making my heart race, my breath gasping against his lips.

“How do you do this to me, you bloody wreck me with just a look, just a word.” Baz breathes the words into my skin as his tongue slides along my jawline, the slight pull of his lips making me reach down to grab his arse and yank him closer.

Still not close enough.

I push myself from the door, knocking Baz momentarily off balance, and then his hands are gripping my shirt, bringing me near again, as I barrel us forward until his legs hit the back of the bed and we both tumble onto the mattress.

Baz’s legs slide apart and I crawl up the bed between them, until I’m hovering over him. I can’t help but grin. I love this. I love how he responds every time I do this.

His fingers grip my curls tightly and he smirks up at me, one eyebrow raised. “Think you’ve got me figured out, do you, Snow?”

“I’ve had years of watching you, now haven’t I?”

There’s green and blue in the grey of his eyes and I’m lost when I look into the depths of them. Baz lifts his head up, like he always does, brings his lips up to mine, again and again. My hands slip under his shirt, smoothing over his cool skin, making him shudder with the intensity of my touch.

He tightens his grip on my hair and I’m the one being pulled down now, dragged down until our lips crash into each other as we wrestle for control, neither giving an inch, mouths pressing feverishly together, my tongue sliding against the coolness of his.

It has all the searing intensity of our long-ago fights and the unceasing sensuality of mutual surrender.

He’s the air I breathe. Every touch brings me alive.

I can feel the stuttering of his heart against my chest, the hammering beat of his pulse as my lips trail his neck, the unexpected throb of him when my hand finds its way into his pants.

He’s so alive. He never believes me when I tell him.

But I know, oh, do I know.

**Baz**

I’d wanted to sleep in but there are appearances to maintain when we visit my family. Our presence at breakfast is an unstated expectation.

It’s also nearly impossible to keep Simon in bed once the smell of frying bacon hits him.

I’d woken to him wrapped around me, the heat of his body warming mine. His breath on the nape of my neck, his arms circling my waist. “You awake, Baz?”

I’d groaned. “I am now.”

He’d sniffed the air. “Breakfast’s ready, I think.”

“You’d think you were the one with the keen sense of smell.”

“You just don’t have an adequate appreciation for bacon.”

There’s an ensuite in our room here at the lodge so we make quick work of washing up and then decorously proceed to breakfast with the family. 

I proceed decorously. Simon thunders down the stairs like a famished ox.

Meal over, my Father beckons for us to follow him into his study. That’s all it takes for the color to drain from Simon’s face. His hand finds mine and he grips it tightly.

We sit together, in the armchairs in front of Father’s desk. Simon looks like a man contemplating his own demise.

Father smiles at him in an attempt to put him at ease, but the death grip on my hand is evidence it isn’t working. Father picks up the letter from the solicitors instead and waves it at us.

“Simon, thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Erm . . . uh . . . I can’t think of anyone else I would trust with it, sir.”

For Crowley’s sake, Simon’s shaken up enough to be calling my father ‘sir’ again.

Father presses on. “I don’t see anything untoward about it, on my read.”

“I don’t want it. Any of it.” There is uncharacteristic venom in his tone.

In the brief moments we’ve been in here his entire demeanor has changed. He’s got that hunted, desperate look that would only ever come over him the day we’d leave Watford for the summer.

There’s a desolation in his eyes I’ve not seen since the months after the Mage’s death. It chills me how easily he’s regressing.

Father blinks and I realize he sees it too. He leans forward, eyes riveted on Simon. “You don’t have to do anything about it, if you don’t want to, Simon.”

I frown. That’s not what Father had intimated to me last night. I’m about to speak up when a sidelong glance from my father quells me.

I’ll see where Father’s going with this.

“You don’t have to, but my advice would be that you should at least see what the solicitors have to say. See what this bequest entails.”

Simon’s face is mutinous, jaw thrust forward. “I don’t want anything of his.”

“You may mean that, but I think you’re being a bit hasty.” Father puts up a hand as Simon shakes his head in denial. “I know you feel that way now, Simon. This has certainly been a shock and that’s an understandable response. You wanted my advice though and I am going to be frank with you, if that’s all right?”

Simon nods, his hand crushing mine.

“This letter basically acknowledges you as the sole beneficiary of the Mage’s estate. That means the solicitors have discovered no other potential inheritors to take over the Mage’s property and possessions. All he had is now yours, in its entirety. That’s unexpected and upsetting and a whole host of other emotions, I expect. It’s tempting to refuse it all, but you need to think this through. There may well be information of interest, to you or others. There may well be property that can provide you some financial security in the long term.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Grimm, I don’t care about any of that.” A muscle twitches in Simon’s cheek as he clenches his jaw. “For all I care they can sell every bit of it and give the money away to some charity. I’d be fine with that.”

“And that may be perfectly reasonable and appropriate under the circumstances, Simon. I’m not saying it isn’t. But I am saying, if that’s your choice, that you at least obtain all the information available before you make that determination. Consult with people you trust.”

“I trust you and Baz.”

My father’s expression softens. “I am honored by your trust in me. And I know Baz will always have your best interests at heart.” His gaze flicks to me then back to Simon. “I am not well versed in such legal matters, however. I would like your permission to consult with someone who is.”

“You have it.”

“And I would ask you to be open to speaking to this person, to taking this individual’s advice, even if it isn’t quite the course you are determined to follow at this moment.”

“Pardon?”

Father sighs. “I’d prefer you didn’t write this all off right now, Simon. Let’s get some expert advice on how you should handle this. And give me your word that you won’t let your emotions about this overrule your better judgment?”

That earns Father a classic Simon Snow scowl. “I’ll not be changing my mind about this.”

Father’s eyes flick to me again and I shrug. There’s little point to arguing with Simon when he’s got that particular expression on his face. I know that only too well.

I squeeze his hand. “Let’s agree to get all the information we need first, love. I’ll support whatever decision you ultimately make, you know I will, but make up your mind once you’ve had some advice first perhaps?”

Simon looks between Father and me. “I’m not likely to change my mind.”

I can’t help the groan that escapes me. “I’m well aware.”

His frown doesn’t dissipate but some of the tension in his frame does. “I respect your opinion on this, Malcolm.” I don’t think Simon’s even realized he’s called Father by his first name this time. “I’ll do as you say.”

There’s relief in Father’s face and that warm look again. “Good man. I’ll call Oliver this morning and get his take on all this.”

“Who’s Oliver?” Simon tilts his head as he asks the question.

“Oliver Salisbury. You’ve met Lady Salisbury at the Club? Her son. He’s a solicitor himself, quite well versed in inheritance law, both Magickal and Normal.”

“Lady Salisbury’s son?” Simon’s face flushes as he turns to me. “The lady we met at lunch last week?”

 “Yes, that Lady Salisbury.” My father’s perplexed expression does little to hinder my amusement. “She let me know what a _dear_ Simon was with the children and that she thought he was most definitely a ‘ _keeper_.’”

It’s worth it for the flush on both their faces.

  
**Simon**

I’m not in any state to chatter with the children after the discussion with Mr. Grimm. My clothes feel as if they’ve shrunk a size overnight. There’s a sizzling sensation thrumming all through me. I’d be close to going off if I still had my magic.

I glance out the windows as we make our way back to Baz’s room. Bloody hell. It’s pouring rain. I’m half tempted to go for a run in it anyway, just to work off some of this pent-up energy, emotion, frustration. I’d do it if we were still in London, but I’m not too keen on running through the mud and muck I’d be bound to find here.

I could ask Baz to put a weatherizing spell on me but he’d have to spell my wings and tail too. It all just seems like too much right now.

I can see him glancing at me as we walk up the steps. “You alright, Simon?”

“Yeah. Just wish I could go for a run is all. Let some steam off.”

Baz narrows his eyes at me. “I could spell you, if you’d like. Make the wings invisible and do a quick **_“like oil and water”_** on you.”

“Nah, you know me, I’d still end up wearing half the countryside.” I try to smile but it’s a weak attempt at humor.

It still makes Baz smile. “I’d not be surprised.” He pulls me closer and plants a kiss on my temple. “I’ve a better idea than running.”

My face flushes. “ _Baz._ ” It comes out as a hiss. It’s one thing to indulge ourselves a bit at night. It’s a whole other thing when everyone’s awake and roaming the house. Baz’s siblings are not easily put off, even by locked doors.

He raises an eyebrow. “Not _that_ , you wanker. Even I know better than to try that when the ruffians are awake and prowling.” His arm tightens around my waist. “I thought it might be a good time for the playlist. Work some energy off dancing?”

I like that. I like the sound of that a lot.

It’s just that the sight of Baz dancing makes me have thoughts of getting my energy off in other far more sensual ways.

Which is fine. That’s what cold showers are for anyway, right?

Tonight can’t come soon enough.

**Malcolm**

I’ve been fuming ever since Basilton rang me up about this. As if David Llewellyn didn’t inflict enough damage on our family when he was alive, must we be subjected to it after his death as well?

Simon looked worse just now than he did on his initial visit to Pitch Manor. What that boy has lived through. . . it’s as devastating as my Baz. More, in some ways, as he’s never had the support of a family to stand with him.

Until now.

I like Simon. I never expected to, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been wrong about someone.

I hang up the phone and make my way upstairs. I’m grateful to Daphne for taking the children out for the day. Simon is in no shape to be entertaining them right now. The boy looked ready to fall apart at the seams earlier.

Oliver Salisbury raised some salient points and even though it goes against my initial inclinations, I do think he has the right of it. Simon needs to go to Wales. He must meet with these solicitors, see what they have for him and move swiftly to close this chapter of his life and move beyond it. He’ll have Basilton with him. My son can handle whatever Simon isn’t willing to confront.

I reach Baz’s door and raise my hand to knock, but the music emanating from the room stops me in my tracks. I know this song. I close my eyes and listen, a hand on the wall to steady myself. The memories flood me as this song ends and the next one begins.

Baz and Fiona. It’s the _Emergency Dance Party Mix._

That realization threatens my composure even further; the thought that my son is the one no doubt providing the comfort this time, to Simon, rather than being on the receiving end of it. That Fiona’s playlist is bringing a different boy back from the depths of despair.

I rest my forehead against the doorframe and collect myself before I turn away and go back downstairs. I’ll leave them to it. We can discuss Oliver’s recommendations when they come down for mealtime.

They need this more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song Because Our Love is Real by Erasure


End file.
